I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  A text comes in from Dustin.

  Wi-Fi network named EastLove. Mean anything?

  EastLove. I frown. Could be any parents of an Eastbrook student.

  No, I text back. Why?

  Whoever made your Tinder account did it from EastLove.

  A few seconds later, he sends me an address. I know the street; it’s about four blocks from my house.

  49

  Wet leaves lie flattened against my windshield. I push them off and climb in my car. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I wind my way back from the hospital toward my neighborhood.

  I know I should be by my mother’s side, but the urge to find out who has been torturing me is overwhelming. I promise myself that I will return to the hospital as soon as I can. But I have to go—learning the truth could keep me out of jail.

  A quick glance at a map on my phone tells me that 304 Glenview sits about a quarter mile from my house, just on the other side of the community pool.

  The pool where that photo of me in the blue bikini was taken. I can feel it in my bones—I’m finally going to find out who has been behind all this.

  Glenview is one of a handful of short streets that make up a corner of our neighborhood untouched by the wave of demolitions and McMansions that has plagued the area. The houses here are original—modest redbrick ramblers set back from the street with identical black wrought iron railings on either side of white cement steps. Daisy had showed us a house here, a “starter” home in her vernacular, unlike our “forever” home.

  I slow down, peering at the numbers as I drive. Past a house with a pumpkin flag flapping in the breeze, and past one with pots of faded purple mums outside the front door.

  As I pull the car to a stop in front of 304, my phone rings. It’s Artie Zucker—I have no choice but to answer.

  “Don’t panic, but a warrant has been entered into the system for your arrest. First-degree murder.”

  I gasp as if I’ve been sucker punched. I knew this was a possibility, but to hear it out loud still comes as a shock. A kid around Cole’s age wobbles by on his bike, his father jogging after him. Stinging tears flood my eyes. “I can’t go to jail.”

  “Take a deep breath. Calm down.”

  “Calm down? I’m going to be arrested for a crime I didn’t commit. What the hell is going on? How can they do this?”

  “Look, this is just the first step in the process—”

  “I don’t give a shit about the process!” I slam my fist onto the steering wheel, sending a wave of pain radiating up my arm. “I’m sorry, Artie. It’s not your fault.”

  “I’ve arranged for you to turn yourself in,” Artie continues as if my outburst had never taken place. “At seven a.m. tomorrow morning.”

  “I can do that? Turn myself in?”

  “Absolutely. Police prefer when you turn yourself in, and frankly, the courts look fondly on that. Nobody wants to scoop you up in front of your kids.”

  I think of Cole, grateful that he is not in town to see his mother arrested. The news will devastate him. We won’t be able to keep it a secret very long. My efforts to protect him from the kind of chaos I endured as a child have failed.

  “I think we ought to meet later today and go over a few things,” Artie says. “Like what to bring and not to bring and what you can expect. Lay out what your day is going to look like because it’s going to be a long one.”

  I nod.

  “Allie, you there?”

  “Yup. I’m here.”

  “The good thing about turning yourself in early is that you will almost certainly be arraigned on the same day. So if bail is an option, we’ll know tomorrow.”

  “You mean bail might not be an option?”

  “We’ll talk about all that later today. Does five work? It won’t be a long meeting. Can Mark be there?”

  “He’s out of town.” I don’t mention that Mark thinks I will be meeting him at rehab at five.

  “Fine. Then just you. My office in Rockville at five.”

  “I just don’t understand how this is happening. I mean, what are they basing this on?”

  “Apparently, they have an eyewitness.”

  “An eyewitness? That’s impossible. An eyewitness to what?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll know more tomorrow. I’ll see you at five.”

  I sit there a moment, letting what Zucker said sink in. Eyewitness? Could one of these women, one of these neighborhood gossips, actually think they saw something? Or is someone so hell-bent on destroying me that they would lie to the police? But who, and why?

  The answer may be on this street.

  I know I need to call Mark and tell him what’s happening, but the urgency to find out the truth compels me to get out of the car. I am certain in my bones that I am about to draw a direct line between what happened all those years ago and the nightmare I found myself in today.

  Paul Adamson is dead.

  It has to be his wife. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  Sexy Lexi.

  The Overton shirt.

  Someone who knew about Paul Adamson, someone angry enough to want to destroy me. It makes sense in a twisted way. In the yard next door, a middle-aged woman in jeans and a down vest drags a tarp filled with leaves to the curb.

  She gives me a friendly wave as I get out of my car. I wave back and practically run up the long set of cement steps to the front door. I can feel the blood pumping through my body. I am prepared for anything. I just want answers.

  Gone is the shame I felt this morning when Mark told me that I had passed out at International Night. In its place is white-hot anger electrifying me to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  I knock on the paneled door and wait. I can see out of the corner of my eye that the neighbor with the tarp is staring at me. I shoot her a look, telegraphing her to mind her own business.

  I knock on the door again, this time with a closed fist.

  A black metal mailbox molded into the shape of a giant envelope hangs on the brick wall next to the front door. I lift the flap. Maybe I’ll find a letter with a name on it. But it’s empty save for a flyer from Greener Pastures Landscaping. It’s four o’clock. Either the mail has not yet been delivered or whoever lives here has taken it in.

  A tall pane of wavy glass flanks the left side of the front door, but it is difficult to see through. All I can make out is a long, dark hallway, a slate floor, and a narrow console. This time, I bang on the door with all I’ve got.

  Impatience gnaws at me. I step back to assess the house and yard. A mulched pathway laid with round concrete stepping-stones runs alongside the house to the back.

  “They’re not home,” the neighbor calls.

  I ignore her and head around back, taking giant half hops on the stones, which are set just far enough apart to make simple steps impossible. With a little finagling, the back-gate latch opens, and I find myself in a wide but shallow backyard. It’s really just a stretch of grass parallel to a tall privacy fence. Most of the back is taken up by a slate patio, upon which sits a rusted wrought iron table and chairs.

  Nothing here to identify the occupants of the house. Only a plastic blue watering can, bleached by the sun, lying on its side next to a few terra-cotta pots.

  A wide sliding-glass door offers a view of the kitchen. I cup my hands over my eyes and peer inside, looking for clues. It’s dark. I can make out blond wooden cabinets and yellow laminate countertops that look original to the house.

  Suddenly, something lunges from the darkness inside the house and hurtles itself against the plate glass. I stumble back, trip on the edge of a chair, and fall down.

  A dog’s muffled yapping fills the air. Shock gives way to annoyance. I’ve fallen on wet leaves, which now cling to my jeans. The dampness soaks through my pants to my rear end and thighs.

  “Damn it.” I pick myself up, peeling off the leaves. On the other side of the glass, a small white dog propels itself at the glass once again.

  A West Highla
nd Terrier.

  Marnie.

  50

  In an instant, the truth crystallizes. Susan lives here.

  How could I not know that? My face flushes hot as it hits me how careless I have been. I allowed this woman into my home and into my life, and I never even bothered to learn her address. I spent more time researching scooters for Cole than I did checking on Susan.

  I trusted her implicitly, and why wouldn’t I? An older woman, so warm and maternal, always ready with the right recipe or a piece of poster board. How easy it was for her to infiltrate my chaotic life. She must have been laughing at me the whole time.

  I gave her the key to our house.

  I entrusted my son to her.

  Could she have been married to Paul? Impossible. She would have been a good twenty years older, at least.

  Then it hits me—she is Paul’s mother. She blames me for his death. What would I do if I thought someone had been responsible for Cole’s death? Would I track that person down and claw their life to shreds?

  I might.

  Bits of data zip across my brain.

  It would have been easy for her to plant the liquid Ambien. She had access to my home computer, too, no password required.

  I’ve seen her at the pool.

  She lied about the Zoni triplets.

  The Overton T-shirt—it could all easily be her doing.

  From the front of the house comes the sound of a car with squeaky brakes pulling to a stop. In seconds, I am through the gate and running back down the wood-chip path to the front of the house. I emerge into the front yard just as Susan is opening the trunk of her car. I run down the hill to her.

  “Hey!” I yell. “Susan!”

  Susan steps out from behind the trunk, her cheeks twitching nervously. “Allie. What are you doing here?” She holds a bag of groceries in front of her as if for protection.

  “I know,” I say.

  “You know what, dear?” Her eyes dart around, unable to focus.

  “Cut the bullshit, Susan.”

  She seems frozen in place, not a muscle moving. “I see,” she says in a soft voice. “Can we please discuss this inside? The neighbors are watching.”

  “I don’t care. I want answers.” I pull out my cell phone. “Before I call the police.”

  My skin tingles. Behind me, someone is approaching. I know it is Susan’s neighbor even before I turn to see her pinched face.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, her brow furrowed. “Susan, is everything all right?”

  “If you don’t mind,” I say, “we’re in the middle of something.”

  “Susan?” The neighbor cranes her neck to look past me.

  “She’s fine! Mind your own fucking business.” I turn back to Susan. “Well? Anything you want to tell me before I call the cops?”

  “Don’t call the police, please.” Susan grabs at my phone, and I pull it away. She loses balance and tips toward me, flailing her arms before falling to the asphalt.

  “Oh my god!” the neighbor exclaims and drops to her knees next to Susan. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two more people rushing toward us.

  Susan lies crumpled on the ground. “I’m sorry, Allie.” She peers up at me. “I can explain everything.”

  “You just assaulted her,” the neighbor says. “I saw it with my own eyes. I should call the police.”

  “No!” Susan shouts and struggles to her feet, using the trunk of the car to help her up. “Please don’t call the police, Nancy. I’m fine. Please.”

  “You’re bleeding,” Nancy says. “Hold on. I have a first aid kit in my car.”

  Susan touches her chin and looks at the blood on her hand in wonder. She turns her gaze on me. “Can we go inside, Allie?” she pleads. “I’ll tell you everything, I swear.”

  The events of the last two weeks swirl in my head. “You’re going to tell me now.”

  “In front of all these people?”

  “Yes.”

  The neighbor has returned, clutching a small red nylon bag with a large white cross on it.

  “Show some mercy, Allie,” Susan says.

  “You want mercy? Where was my mercy, Susan? Why have you been doing this to me? Are you related to Paul Adamson?”

  “Paul Adamson? Who’s Paul Adamson?”

  “You almost ruined my life!” Behind me, a small crowd has gathered. Let them stare, I think. For once, I have nothing to be ashamed of. “I might lose my son because of you.”

  Susan’s eyes fill with tears. “I just wanted the job. I knew you wouldn’t hire me if you knew the truth. It was wrong to lie. I know that.” She lets out a sob that seems to reduce her to even smaller stature. “I just wanted to start over.”

  My adrenaline drops down to zero, replaced by a sickening hunch. Something is wrong here. This isn’t adding up. I search Susan’s red, tear-streaked face for answers.

  “I couldn’t give you a reference,” she says in such a small voice that I have to step closer to hear her. “I haven’t held a job in years. Nothing at all. After Samuel died…” Her voice trails off.

  Susan and I are having two different conversations.

  I take a step back, and she takes one toward me as if we are dancing. “I’m good with kids,” she continues. “I worked at the Montessori in Bannockburn for almost twenty years, until the drinking got to be too much. But I swear, Allie, I haven’t had a drink in eighteen months. I just wanted a second chance. That’s why I lied about the Zoni children.”

  “You lied about your references to get hired?”

  “I tried telling people the truth.” She hiccups. “But no one would hire a sixty-year-old woman with no references. I adore Cole. I really do. Please don’t fire me.”

  Trembling hands outstretched, Susan wobbles toward me.

  “Forgive me for lying, Allie.” Snot runs down her nose. She’s been transformed into a character from a children’s tale, haggard, sniveling, and I’m the one who has reduced her to this. I open my mouth to speak, but no words fall from my lips. The onlookers surge past me, comforting and embracing Susan. I step back, pushed out of the circle of warmth and comfort.

  Nancy with the first aid kit whips her head around.

  “Aren’t you that woman? The one from the internet?” she asks. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I didn’t…” I start to say. “I thought…”

  I hurry to my car, fighting back tears. I drive away, feeling as if I have left some part of my humanity behind. At the end of the block, I look in the rearview mirror through blurry eyes. The street has emptied. All the neighbors have gone inside.

  Ashamed of yourself.

  It hurts because it’s true. I don’t recognize who I’ve become.

  Then it hits me. Dustin.

  He sent me here.

  But why?

  51

  I grip the steering wheel tightly as I drive home, wondering how I could have gotten it all so wrong.

  Was Dustin toying with me? Playing a game?

  Maybe Krystle was right: he was just out to make money, and I was an easy mark. Or maybe he was simply a spiteful little shit. Either way, I fell for it like an idiot.

  Even after Daisy warned me.

  I pull up in front of my house and stare at Leah’s front door, wondering if Dustin is home. I dial his number, but he doesn’t answer.

  “What the hell was that?” I practically yell into the phone. “I want some answers, Dustin. You need to call me as soon as you get this message.”

  I text him: WTF? Call me.

  Inside my kitchen, I pace around.

  The Bridgeways brochure stares up at me from the counter. Suddenly, a week at a fancy rehab doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I’m unraveling like a cheap sweater. But I won’t be making that five o’clock appointment at Bridgeways that Mark made for me. I’ll be meeting with Artie Zucker to discuss the details of turning myself in to the police for murder.

  I call Mark, but the call goes straight to voice mail.


  “I can’t meet you today at Bridgeways. Artie Zucker called. There’s a warrant for my arrest, and I have to turn myself in tomorrow morning.” My voice cracks on that last word, and I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mark. I’m meeting him at his office at five, if you want to meet us.” I pause. “I’d like you to be there if you can.”

  I tuck the phone in my back pocket and wander upstairs and into my bedroom. I’ll need a suit or something presentable to wear in court when I am arraigned tomorrow. I open my closet, searching for an outfit that says not guilty.

  My cell phone rings, and I lunge for it. It’s not Dustin, though, it’s Krystle. “Finally,” I say. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “With a lawyer. Allie, I’m in big trouble. It doesn’t look good.” The words come pouring out. “The account in Queens? The one under my name where the mortgage company sent the check to? It’s been emptied out. The money’s gone.” Her voice catches. “Allie, I think I might go to jail. And I swear I didn’t take the money.”

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be all right,” I say, but even as I say the words, I know it’s not. My mother’s been poisoned, my sister’s under suspicion for mortgage fraud, and I’m about to be arrested for murder. Someone is trying to destroy my whole family.

  “No, it’s not.” Krystle’s voice catches, surprising me. I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen her cry, and it was always because she was bleeding or had a broken bone. She was the one to go get my superball back from the tough boys on the corner or kick Colin MacDougal in the shins for calling me flat-chested.

  “You’re right. It’s not.” I tell her about what’s happening with me, how I have to turn myself in tomorrow morning. “I’m leaving soon to meet with my lawyer to discuss the details.”

  “That’s insane! We will fight this. If your lawyer’s not good enough, we’ll get you a better one. We won’t let you go to jail.”

  “But I am going, Krystle. That’s where they put you when they arrest you for first-degree murder. I may not make bail.” My eyes well up.

  “Why is this happening to us?” I go to the window and peer out into the dark. The rain has started up again. Across the street, at Leah’s house, I see movement in the top window. I squint hard, but I cannot tell if it is a person or just my eyes playing tricks on me.