Heartstopper

by Joy Fielding

  It was more or less the same thing every year. She never let up. “Where are you, scaredy-cat?” she’d call, searching for me under the wide red and blue umbrellas scattered along the beach. “Come on, chicken liver. It’s your turn. Show us what you’re made of.” It got to the point where I dreaded family vacations even more than a trip to the dentist.

  The family outings stopped only when my aunt died.

  Boohoo.

  I can’t get into that now. I don’t have time. I’ve wasted too much time already reminiscing, and I have so much to do. Everything got thrown off schedule, and I have to figure out what to do before it gets too light. Even now, I’ve only got a small window of opportunity. I can’t risk anyone discovering I’m gone. News of Liana Martin’s disappearance has swept through Torrance like a snake through grass. Everyone’s really spooked.

  It’ll be even worse once they discover her body.

  Did I mention Liana is dead?

  Did I mention that my whole schedule got thrown out of whack?

  Out of whack—don’t you just love that expression?

  I’d planned to come back last night, have my fun, finish her off, then bury her in a swamp a few miles away. But you know what they say about best-laid plans. An idiot by the name of Ray Sutter, who’d had a few too many beers, went and drove his car into the ditch at the side of the road right near where I’d buried Candy, and there was a tow truck trying to get it out, and a bunch of people standing around. (This qualifies as entertainment in a town like Torrance.) Good thing nobody noticed me. But then, they never do. Good thing, too, that I did such a good job of burying Candy’s body—“If you’re going to do something, do it right,” my aunt used to say—although nobody was looking much past the old, beat-up, red Chevy that was stuck deep in the muck. I left and came back later, after the tow truck had done its job and everyone had left the scene. I could still hear echoes of Ray Sutter’s wife yelling through the darkness, saying I told you so over and over. Personally, I’m with her on this one. I think people who drive drunk are a disgrace as well as a danger. I think they should be shot.

  At any rate, Candy’s grave was undisturbed. She continues to rest in peace. Or should I say pieces? I’m sure the worms and other assorted critters have gotten to her by now.

  Anyway, I wasn’t able to get back to the house until almost four in the morning. Liana had been sleeping, and she was semidelirious at this point, which took away a bit of the fun. But at first, I think she was actually relieved to see me. Her eyes widened. Her lips formed the tiniest hint of a smile. I wasn’t some deformed, slavering monster in dirty, blood-spattered clothes. (Did Liana Martin’s parents never read her the fable of the wolf in sheep’s clothing? As I recall, it didn’t end too well for the sheep.) No, I was neat and I was presentable, and I was speaking softly, trying to get her to calm down, assuring her that if she cooperated with me, we might be able to find a way out of this uncomfortable predicament.

  Of course, she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in over thirty-six hours—note to self: remember to keep several bottles of water in the room, in case unexpected delays happen again—and she was weak and really quite desperate, and therefore willing to go along with whatever I suggested, if she thought it would save her life. She still considered this a possibility, the human brain having a seemingly limitless capacity to delude itself. We believe what we want to believe, regardless of the evidence before us, and Liana Martin wanted desperately to believe she was going to escape with her life.

  So, I gave her some water and half a sandwich I’d stored in the fridge, and she gobbled it up—remember what I said last time about the wonders of the human appetite?—and we sat and we talked. About all sorts of things. She told me about her parents, how her dad was some big shot with the Bank of America, and her mom was a former beauty queen who’d given up her crown, as it were, when she got married. And how she had two younger brothers, and one younger sister, Meredith, who was only six, and who was already a major pain in the butt because everyone was always telling her how beautiful she was, and their mother was always hauling her all over the state to compete in beauty contests. In fact, her parents had gone to Tampa with her sister for a pageant and might not even know she was missing.

  And then she started to cry.

  Like I said—girls always cry.

  And her eyes were so puffy, you could hardly see them. And they were red because she’d been rubbing them. Which was too bad, because her eyes were probably Liana’s best feature. The mascara staining her cheeks didn’t help her appearance much either. She looked bruised and bloated, and I hadn’t even touched her yet. I asked her why she didn’t use waterproof mascara and she just looked at me like I was crazy.

  What day was it? she wanted to know. How long had she been here?

  I told her it was very early Wednesday morning, that she’d been here since Monday afternoon. I told her that all I wanted was to be alone with her, and that I’d let her go after we spent some “quality time” together. Isn’t that what the experts are always talking about—quality time? Tell me things about yourself, I urged, sitting down beside her on the cot, things you’ve never told anyone else before. She was reluctant at first, but after a while she started opening up. She said she had the same insecurities as everybody else, that she didn’t think she was as pretty as her mother or younger sister, that she thought her nose was too big and her thighs were too heavy, and that she was always afraid of not measuring up. Not measuring up to what? I asked, and she shrugged her shoulders, like she didn’t even know what she was supposed to measure up to. She talked about her boyfriend, Peter, and said how everybody thought they looked so cute together, but that she really wasn’t sure she liked him that much anymore because he wasn’t very nice to her. Then she cried some more.

  I asked her if she and Peter had sex. She said it was none of my business. I didn’t like that, and my displeasure must have registered on my face, because she changed her mind immediately, told me that, yes, of course, they had sex. I asked what sort of things they did together, if she used her mouth. She said sometimes she did, but confessed that Peter never had. I told her that was too bad. A real man would use his mouth, I said.

  I asked her if Peter was the first guy she’d had sex with. She shook her head. I asked her about losing her virginity, who it had been with, what it was like, if it had been painful, if she had any regrets.

  That’s when she started getting really agitated. I could see it in her eyes, the way they kept darting back and forth, as if now that she’d had something to eat and drink and she had a bit of strength back, she was considering making a run for it, although where she thought she could run is anybody’s guess. But she answered me anyway. I think she was afraid of what would happen if we stopped talking, so she indulged me. She told me she was thirteen when she lost her virginity, and that yes, it had hurt, although only for a few seconds, and, no, she had no regrets. The boy was the son of their next-door neighbors, and his name was Eric Weir. He was sixteen, and he joined the army right after his high school graduation. He was promptly sent to Afghanistan, where he was killed by a sniper’s bullet a week before he was scheduled to come home. I asked her if she ever thought about him. She said no, although she was sorry he was dead. I asked her how many guys she’d slept with. She said four. Then she tried to ask me a few questions, but I wouldn’t answer. I told her I was the one asking the questions.

  That’s when she got mad, started hurling insults at me—I don’t remember what they were exactly—I tend to block out some of the more objectionable things people say—and I decided there was nothing to be gained from keeping her alive any longer. I pulled out my gun. That’s when she really lost it. God, you could hardly make out a thing she was saying because she was talking so fast. Suddenly, she turned into that other girl, Candy, offering to do whatever I wanted her to. “You want me to use my mouth?” she asked, among other obscenities I won’t bother mentioning. That’s when I hit her on the side
of her face with the end of my gun. The wallop knocked her flat on her back and caused her left cheek to blow up like a balloon. It was amazing how fast that damn thing swelled up. You can’t really see it now because the bullet tore off half her head, but trust me, it was impressive.

  It may sound strange, especially in light of what happened, but I think Liana was actually starting to like me, at least a little. Although what did I just say about the brain’s limitless capacity for self-delusion? So maybe she was just playing along, trying to placate me, trying to get me to see her as a human being, and not as some inanimate object, so that I’d take pity on her and let her go. I read somewhere that if you’re ever held hostage, that’s what you should try to do, and maybe Liana had read the same article. Apparently it’s harder to kill people once you see them as human.

  Funny how few people qualify.

  Anyway, water under the bridge. Isn’t that what they say? Is that a metaphor? At least that one makes sense. It means what’s done is done. And Liana is dead and gone. Well, no, not gone, which is precisely the problem. One I have to solve in relatively short order. I have to get back before everybody wakes up. I’m not usually up at this hour of the morning, and people remember small inconsistencies in behavior. I don’t want a minor scheduling snafu coming back to haunt me.

  So, it’s important I get Liana’s body into the ground now. I can’t risk leaving her here. Even with these cooler temperatures, it won’t take long before her body starts to decay. Already, invisible maggots are munching on her torn flesh, and I don’t even want to think about what condition she’ll be in by the end of the day. So, I’ll just wrap her up and carry her to the trunk of my car, find a suitable spot to dump her. MOVE, BITCH, indeed.

  I’m sure the powers-that-be will be organizing a search party in just a few more hours. Maybe I’ll sign up. Do my civic duty. Maybe I’ll even be the one to “discover” her body. Eureka! Over here. I think I found something.

  Of course I can’t let them find her too quickly. What would be the fun in that? But maybe later in the week. In time to spoil everybody’s weekend.

  Something to look forward to.

  SEVEN

  Tough day?”

  Sandy stood in the doorway to Rita Hensen’s tiny office, watching as the school nurse finished applying a bandage to the bleeding finger of a ninth-grade student, a girl whom somebody had either accidentally or purposely pushed into a locker earlier in the afternoon. The fourteen-year-old freshman already towered above the forty-three-year-old nurse, who stood barely five feet tall in her platform shoes, and whose open face and ready smile made you want to smile back even when you didn’t feel like it. “Tough week,” Sandy said, as the young girl climbed down off the examining table and left the room, tossing a barely audible “Thank you” in Rita’s direction.

  “Like they say—thank God it’s Friday.” Rita Hensen ushered Sandy inside the closet-sized room and closed the door. “Feel like going out later for a drink?”

  “Can’t.”

  “You sure? You look like you could use a good transfusion.”

  “Speaking of which, did Victor Drummond ever stop by to see you?”

  “Count Dracula? No. Was he supposed to?”

  Sandy shook her head in dismay. Victor hadn’t been back in class since Tuesday, when she’d sent him to see Rita about that gash on his arm. Greg Watt had also been absent the last few days, although Peter Arlington had returned. And of course, Liana Martin was still missing. Which was especially worrisome. From everything Sandy knew about Liana, which admittedly wasn’t much—the girl rarely had anything particularly cogent to contribute in class—Liana had never struck her as either bold or adventurous enough to take off on her own without a word to anyone. For all her telegraphed bravado—MOVE, BITCH—Liana had always struck Sandy as a rather conventional, small-town girl. She’d play at being tough and independent for a few years, then morph gradually and gracefully into her mother, marrying young and reproducing future beauty queens with alarming speed and dexterity. If she had dreams of a life outside of Torrance, she wouldn’t acknowledge them. They were dreams after all, and dreams had a way of bursting, like bubbles, in the hot, morning sun, then disappearing without a trace.

  Like Liana Martin.

  Where was she? What had happened to her?

  Sheriff Weber had organized a search party, and the whole town, it seemed, had been out looking for her since Wednesday morning without any success. Sandy was thinking of signing up herself this weekend, if Liana still hadn’t materialized. Was it possible some lunatic had snatched her? Sandy mulled over the rumors sweeping through the town, then shook her head. More likely, Liana had been seduced by some mysterious Internet suitor, and she was just too embarrassed to come back home. Stranger things have happened, Sandy thought with disgust, picturing her husband with Kerri Franklin.

  “What’s the matter?” Rita asked.

  “Just thinking about Liana Martin,” Sandy said. Not quite a lie. Just not the whole truth.

  “I sure hope she’s all right.” Rita stared absently at the eye chart on the far wall.

  Sandy wondered how Liana’s mother was holding up and tried to imagine what she would do if it were her daughter, Megan, who was missing. She shook the thought away with a deliberate toss of her head. It was simply too awful to contemplate.

  “How’s Brian been acting in class?” Rita suddenly inquired about her son. “He seem all right to you?”

  Although Rita had tried to keep her tone casual, Sandy heard the worry in her voice. “He’s fine. We were talking about metaphors the other day, and he was very insightful.”

  “My son was insightful?”

  Sandy nodded. “I think he has quite deep thoughts.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “You have a problem with deep thoughts?”

  “You want to know what he said to me?” Rita asked by way of an answer.

  Sandy wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear what Rita’s son had said. “What’d he say?” she asked anyway.

  “He hasn’t been sleeping well lately. He’s been waking up in the middle of the night, wandering around the house, going outside for a cigarette. I’ve tried to get him to stop smoking, but …” Rita shrugged. “Anyway, the other night I confronted him, begged him to tell me what was bothering him, and he said …” She paused, released a deep sigh. “He said he didn’t think there was enough oxygen in the air.”

  Sandy might have laughed had it not been for the tears creeping into Rita’s big, hazel eyes. “There isn’t enough oxygen in the air?”

  “He worries about stuff like that,” Rita explained, hands lifting helplessly into the air as her gaze drifted back to the eye chart on the far wall. “I just get so scared. Because of his dad. You know.”

  Sandy knew that Rita’s husband, also named Brian, had suffered from depression for many years before finally committing suicide three years ago. Rumor had it that it was the son who’d discovered his father’s lifeless body hanging from the shower rod when he returned home from school one day, although Rita had never publicly confirmed this.

  “Boys around this age,” Rita continued, “you have to be so careful.”

  Sandy nodded, thinking of her own son. At sixteen, Tim was still the painfully shy boy he’d been for as long as she could remember. Slow to smile, slower to laugh, even slower to make friends, he was the classic outsider: sensitive, introverted, artistic. He preferred classical music to pop, live theater to movies, and books to basketball. Which made him a natural target for boys like Greg Watt and Joey Balfour. Luckily, because he was the teacher’s son, and because his sister was as pretty and popular as she was smart and outgoing, the bullies had seen fit to leave him alone.

  For now.

  “They say that if you can keep them alive until they reach thirty, you’ve got a chance,” Rita said.

  “He’ll be fine,” Sandy told her, in an effort to reassure them both. She stretched for a tissue from the box on the counter
and dabbed gently at Rita’s eyes.

  “Anyway, enough of that. I really think you should come out with me tonight. I have a date, and I’m a little nervous.”

  “You have a date?”

  “A blind one. Ever done that?”

  “Just once. When I was fifteen. It was a disaster.”

  “Then you understand why I’m so nervous, and you’ll come with me,” Rita said.

  “I can’t go with you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s your date. It would be too weird.”

  “So I’ll call him and ask if he has a friend….”

  “No.”

  “Ah, come on—”

  “I remind you I’m a married woman.”

  “In name only.”

  “It’s only been a few weeks since Ian moved out.”

  “Seven weeks,” Rita corrected.

  “Seven, yes.” Sandy was beginning to regret stopping by. “Anyway, there’s been no talk of divorce. We’re not even legally separated.”

  “What do you mean? You still haven’t seen a lawyer?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, what’s keeping you? I gave you the name of that guy in Miami, the one who handled my cousin’s divorce. She said he was excellent.”

  “When do I have time to go to Miami?”

  “Make time.”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “When I have time,” Sandy snapped.

  “Sorry,” Rita apologized. “I think I just crossed a line.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern….”