They’d met nearly five years ago, in the Springfield psychiatric hospital where Chelsea had been held for three months after attempting suicide following the attacks. Elizabeth had been one of the nurses assigned to Chelsea’s pod. Although Elizabeth was seven years Chelsea’s senior, the two connected almost instantly and stayed in contact after Chelsea’s discharge. Then when Elizabeth transferred to a hospital in Boston, Chelsea eventually tagged along.
“You should start getting ready for the farmers’ market. Things get picked over quickly, and besides, the cute guys shop early,” Elizabeth said with a wink.
Chelsea sank even deeper into the couch. “I’m not so sure I want to go out again today.”
Elizabeth strutted into the living room and reached out her hand. “You are going. You need to get out of your head, and that’s not going to happen if you’re just lying around here.”
Elizabeth was right again. They always hit up the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings. No need to break the routine and end up feeling out of sorts the rest of the day.
Chelsea let Elizabeth pull her to her feet. “Okay. Fine. But at least let me take a quick shower. I’m pretty gross.”
“Expecting to meet someone?”
Chelsea laughed. She had vowed to never get close to a man again, and Elizabeth knew it. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Over my dead body.”
CHAPTER 3
CHELSEA PULLED HER blue fall sweater tight against her body, buried her face in the pink chenille scarf looped around her neck, and tried her best to seem okay. Plastering a smile on her face, she tried to focus on the beautiful displays at the farmers’ market.
The sun was working overtime to suppress the chill in the October air. Bostonians were outside in droves, soaking up every ounce of warmth before the long winter forced everyone inside. Chelsea tried to distract herself from her anxiety by concentrating on the rich colors of pumpkins, gourds, and winter squash, pints of homemade soup, and canned jams and jellies.
She fingered the razor blade in her coat pocket, soothed by its mere presence. The blade was her security blanket—in case she ever found herself slipping mentally again and needed an escape. She’d vowed years ago that she would never suffer through the misery of a debilitating depression again or another attack. She’d much rather be dead.
She scanned the crowd, looking for Ethan. Her mind flashed back to the news coverage of the murders, and the photos of Ethan that the media had constantly splashed across the television screen. His high school graduation photo. He’d looked so innocent in it with his short, blond hair and whiskey-colored eyes.
Stop thinking about him.
Elizabeth had been right.
I didn’t see him this morning.
I’ve never seen him.
“Hey,” Elizabeth said, snapping her back into the present. Her eyes serious, she leaned in and whispered, “Your mind was playing tricks on you.”
Chelsea laughed. “You’re in my head again.”
“What can I say? I have mystical powers.” She smiled so widely her molars showed. “And you aren’t very good at hiding what you’re thinking.” She nudged Chelsea’s shoulder. “It feels great out today, doesn’t it? I love this crisp air.” Elizabeth tilted her face to the sun and inhaled deeply.
Chelsea couldn’t care less about the weather. She’d much rather be in her apartment with all her comforts. Away from the crowds, from the possibility of Ethan watching her without her knowledge. “Yeah, I guess it does,” she agreed.
Chelsea noticed a little boy grinning at her. His mother looked at her oddly, then quickly grasped the child’s hand and walked off.
It was just one more reason Chelsea didn’t like being around a lot of people. Ever since the murders, she’d noticed people often looked at her strangely.
Was it because they were repulsed by the raised three-inch slash mark that still extended from her nose to her left ear? After all, it wasn’t every day that you saw someone sporting such a big scar, especially a woman. Or was it because people recognized her face from all the ghoulish national-media coverage? She didn’t know.
Elizabeth grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s go find some cider doughnuts.”
Chelsea started to follow Elizabeth’s lead, but when they turned around, she stopped cold, her breath leaving her with an audible whoosh.
A familiar man was standing no more than ten yards in front of her, checking out a stand that sold frosted cookies and other freshly baked pastries.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
“What?” Elizabeth asked, frowning. She looked in the direction Chelsea was staring. “Chelsea, that’s not Ethan. That guy doesn’t even look like—”
Chelsea shook her head. “No. It’s not Ethan. It’s Boyd.”
“Who?”
“Ethan’s roommate. Boyd. Boyd Lawson.”
His dark hair was a little shorter now, but otherwise he didn’t look much different. She was positive it was him.
“Elizabeth, he was there. The night I was attacked. He’s the guy who left early to deliver pizzas. Remember me telling you about him?”
Elizabeth’s frown deepened. “Yeah, I think so.”
“I want to go talk to him.”
Elizabeth arched a slender eyebrow. “You think that’s a good idea? Revisiting old wounds? I thought you wanted to start over? With a blank slate?”
She did want a blank slate. But she also felt an urge to talk with him. A strong one.
“I do, it’s just . . .”
Chelsea’s gaze swung back to Boyd, who was now walking away from them. He’d be lost in the crowd within seconds. She’d have to hurry if she didn’t want to lose him.
“C’mon. Cider doughnuts are calling our name,” Elizabeth said, yanking Chelsea’s hand.
Chelsea released Elizabeth’s hand and teetered on her tiptoes. “No. I want to talk with him. I want to say hi. Come with me,” she said.
Elizabeth closed her eyes in resignation and shook her head. “Nope. Because this is a bad idea.”
Boyd was quickly disappearing in the throngs of people.
Chelsea started walking backward toward Boyd. “Go get us those doughnuts. I’ll catch up with you. I promise.”
A minute later, Chelsea stood behind Boyd, her arms folded over her body, her insides jittery. He’d surely be as surprised to see her as she was at seeing him. But how did he feel about her now? He’d tried reaching out to her several times in the weeks and months after the murders, but Chelsea had ignored his calls. She’d been much too raw, much too unstable to talk with him. She’d needed to distance herself from anything to do with that night. It was the whole reason she’d moved to Boston.
Fresh city. Fresh start.
And far enough away from Ethan to feel maybe a little safe.
Over the years she’d wondered how Boyd must have felt, leaving the party before the massacre began. Had he been relieved? Did he have survivor’s guilt like she did? Had he been shocked that Ethan could commit murder?
She watched Boyd talk to a man selling dried herbs. He laughed at something the man said, and the sound sent a chill up her spine.
Sweat formed beneath her underarms. Okay, maybe Elizabeth had been right. Maybe this was a bad idea.
She started to turn, to head back toward Elizabeth and the two competing stands that sold cider doughnuts. She was in midturn when Boyd spun around and almost walked right into her.
“Oh, sorry,” he apologized. He started to move past, but then his ice-blue eyes snapped back to hers and widened. His jaw dropped. “Ch . . . Chelsea?”
He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Hi,” she said nervously.
“Wow,” he said, running his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Wow. I, uh—” His eyes slid to the scar on her cheek. “Jesus,” he muttered and shook his head.
She instinctively raised her hand and touched the scar.
He stared at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sorry, it’
s just . . .”
Her knees began to weaken, and again she second-guessed her decision.
“Holy shit. I . . . I can’t believe it’s you. You know, I tried contacting you after, you know, everything.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no. I get it. I do.” His eyes slipped over her scar again, then quickly circled back to her eyes. “They said on the news that you were hurt really bad. That you almost died. NBC did that special news show on what happened. Did you see it?”
She shifted on her feet. No, she hadn’t seen it. And she’d refused to grant the producers an interview. She’d wanted no part of any of it.
His thick brow furrowed. “I’m glad you’re okay. I mean, you are. Right?”
Should she tell him that she’d lost many of her memories of that night? That she sometimes felt like she’d lost part of her mind? That she still had awful nightmares and didn’t sleep much? Her lips twitched as she attempted to smile. “I have my good days. My bad days. But I’m not complaining. And you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”
For the next few minutes, Boyd gave her a thumbnail sketch of what he’d been doing since that night. He told her he hadn’t finished college. That he’d ended up moving back to his hometown of Marblehead. She was familiar with it. It was a nice coastal town about an hour north of Boston. He wound up marrying a girl he’d gone to high school with, but they had separated and were going through a divorce.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks, but it’s what’s best for both of us. We weren’t good together.”
“I’m sure it’s still been hard. Are you doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure. I mean, we’ve been separated almost a year now. The divorce will be final soon.”
She nodded. “So, you come to the city often?”
He shook his head. “Never. That’s part of what’s so wild about this. It’s my first trip to Boston in, like, literally, years. I do business development for a chain of car-detailing shops. Fine Brush. Ever hear of it?”
Chelsea shook her head.
“We’re not in the city yet. But we will be. I’m here scouting locations for a possible expansion. Oh, that reminds me.” He looked down at his watch. “Man, this really sucks. But I have to get going. Gotta meet a Realtor.”
She took a step back and tried to conceal her disappointment. “Oh, sure. Okay.” Talking to him felt good. She didn’t want it to end.
“But we’ve gotta catch up,” he said. “We should grab dinner.”
“Yeah,” she said and felt a surge of relief.
“Tomorrow night work for you?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow night’s great.”
Boyd stored her number in his phone and quickly said goodbye, then vanished back into the crowd. As Chelsea went to find Elizabeth, her body was literally vibrating with excitement. She even felt a smile, a real one, spread across her face.
For the first time in a while, Elizabeth had been wrong about something. Saying hello to Boyd hadn’t been a bad decision at all. Dinner wouldn’t be, either. And even if it was, it was just dinner, so what was the worst that could happen? She’d feel uncomfortable and have to cut it short?
Big deal.
Uncomfortable was her normal. And dinner with Boyd was a risk she was willing to take.
CHAPTER 4
THE NEXT NIGHT a brisk wind sent crisp leaves dancing across the balcony as Chelsea brought her plants inside.
Boyd would be arriving in half an hour. They had dinner reservations for Giulia’s at 7:00 p.m. Chelsea’s heart fluttered like hummingbird wings as she anticipated his arrival. It wasn’t every day that she went to dinner with a friend, especially one as handsome as Boyd. In fact, she couldn’t even remember the last time. Her social life pretty much consisted of eating microwaveable food in front of the TV with Elizabeth while watching a movie or binge-watching some show.
Back inside her apartment, she brewed some coffee, then went to the bathroom to finish getting ready. Ten minutes later, she heard a knock on the door.
Frowning, she glanced at her watch. If it was Boyd, he was very early. And Elizabeth had a key, so she always let herself in. It was rare that anyone else ever showed up at her door.
She glanced through the peephole and saw Boyd staring back. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Boyd stood in the doorway, wearing a suede jacket over a button-down flannel shirt and blue jeans. His short, dark hair was gelled in the front, and although his eyes were a little bloodshot, he looked great.
“Hey,” he said, out of breath, as though he’d taken the stairs up quickly. He stepped toward her and pulled her into a hug. She tried not to tense beneath his touch, but it had been a long time since anyone had hugged her. Elizabeth wasn’t the touchy-feely type, and Chelsea wasn’t close enough with anyone else to warrant intimate body contact.
Boyd smelled great. A little earthy and minty, definitely clean. She felt a tiny leap in her chest before pulling away. “Come in,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “You’re early.”
“I hope it’s okay. I thought there’d be more traffic,” he said. He walked past her into her small living room.
“Yeah. Of course.”
He looked around. “Wow. Great place.”
She noticed he was carrying a large black leather bag over one shoulder. “Man purse?”
He turned to her and grinned. “Ha. You’re still funny.”
I was funny?
She filed away that bit of new information. It was a part of herself that she hadn’t remembered. And she liked it.
“I prefer to call it a shoulder bag, thank you,” he said with a wide smile. He set the bag down next to the couch. “My car was broken into last week, and now I hate to leave anything important in it.” He walked toward the French doors that led to her balcony. “Wow, you have a view, too?”
“Well, it’s not the best,” she said, standing next to him and peering out at the building next to hers and a sliver of Newbury Street, the Rodeo Drive of Boston. “But at least it’s something.”
“I think it’s great.”
“Thanks. Hey, if you don’t mind, I need a few more minutes to finish getting ready,” she said. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m good.” He turned away from the balcony and settled onto the couch, then grabbed his shoulder bag, unzipped it, and pulled out an iPad.
“Okay. I’ll be fast.”
She retreated to the bathroom and hurried to put the finishing touches on her makeup. Ten minutes later, she emerged. As she passed through her bedroom, she froze. The bottom drawer of her dresser was ajar. She went to it and checked its contents and noticed that her old college scrapbook, the oldest thing she still had from the first twenty-three years of her life, was missing.
What the . . . ?
Had Boyd been snooping around?
She knew the thought was crazy, but she hadn’t been in that drawer for months.
Or had she?
Her memory had been so unreliable since the murders, she couldn’t be sure.
She glanced from the drawer to the living room and saw Boyd playing with Harry. She was shocked the cat wasn’t hiding. He always hid when people came around. Not that anyone but Elizabeth ever did. She watched Boyd dangle a toy in front of the cat and laugh as Harry batted at it.
Boyd noticed her and grinned. “I’m normally not a cat person, but this little guy is hysterical.”
She smiled back, then discreetly pushed the drawer shut with her foot.
She’d worry about the scrapbook later.
The savory scents of roasted garlic and oregano hung in the air at Giulia’s.
As soon as they sat down, Boyd ordered a bottle of pinot noir. Chelsea hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since the night of the murders, but her heart was thudding faster than usual, so she decided to let herself have a glass.
The restaurant was small and intimate with deep-red l
eather chairs and dark-mahogany wood tables. Piano music played softly. Chelsea looked across the table at Boyd, taking in his blue eyes, strong jaw, and perfectly straight nose and teeth, and realized again how incredibly handsome he was.
“God, there’s so much I want to talk about,” he said. “I’m not even sure where to start.”
She caught his eyes slide across the scar on her cheek again before flickering to the backs of her hands, which were also full of ugly, raised scars. Was he feeling pity for her? She placed her hands in her lap.
She didn’t like people to feel sorry for her.
She hated how the media had portrayed her as a victim all those months after the murders. She didn’t want others to see her that way. She didn’t want to see herself that way. She just wanted the nightmare to finally be over, so she could just be Chelsea, whoever the hell that was.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But your scars. I can’t get over the fact that he did that to you.”
She decided to change the direction of the conversation. “So, how long were you married?” she asked.
“A little over a year. One of the worst years of my life, and that’s saying a lot,” he said and laughed, but his eyes didn’t join in. He grabbed a piece of crusty bread, broke off a piece, then drenched it in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “The marriage was a big mistake. Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was just a pathetic attempt at having a normal life. Proving I wasn’t still a screwup.”
A screwup? He didn’t appear that way to her at all. “How do you mean?”
Before he could answer, the wine appeared. Chelsea watched as Boyd swirled the wine around a little in the wineglass, smelled it, took a sip, then nodded. The waiter nodded back, filled both glasses one-third of the way, and quietly walked off.
Chelsea sipped her wine while she listened to Boyd explain that he’d had a drug problem in college that got much worse after the murders. He said he’d gone to rehab for it several times over the past four years, and it had caused a big rift between him and his family and most of his friends. Peering into his eyes, which were still a little bloodshot, Chelsea couldn’t help but wonder if he’d relapsed again.
Disturbed Page 5