“I don’t know. Is this why you were calling so many times?” Krystle asks. “In your messages, you said something about Sharon.”
“I don’t want to upset you, but Sharon’s in the hospital.” I explain everything to her—what the doctor said, the antifreeze, the gummy candies. “She was convinced some woman was out to get her, but today, I learned that the name she used was actually the relative who left her the house in Westport, so Sharon was clearly confused.”
I feel a slight pang of guilt knowing that I won’t be able to visit my mother at the hospital tomorrow, but I dismiss it. She’s in good hands.
“You still there?” I ask Krystle.
“Who did Sharon say was out to get her?”
“She said it was Margaret Cooper. You know, her aunt?”
“And she said this woman was trying to hurt her?” A note of coolness has crept into her voice.
“Yes.” I sit on the bed. “But she has dementia, Krystle. Margaret Cooper died in 2005, right after she gave the house to Sharon.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” The radiator clinks, startling me.
“I need to tell you something.” Her voice quakes when she speaks. “Remember how you thought that maybe Paul Adamson was behind all the crazy things that were happening to you?”
“He’s not, Krystle. He’s dead.”
“Fine. But what about his wife?”
“What about her?”
“Her name was Margaret Cooper.”
52
The room seems to fall away from me. I have to dig my nails into my thigh to stop from screaming.
“Why did Paul Adamson’s wife sell us her house for five dollars?”
“She didn’t sell it to us. We stole it.”
“What do you mean, stole?” I feel sick, betrayed. That my own sister would orchestrate an elaborate scam out of my own suffering.
“Oh, come on, Allie. You never suspected just once?” Her incredulity is a slap in my face. “Like Sharon has some distant relative who lived in Westport? Give me a break!”
“No, I trusted you guys. I didn’t question it. You’re my family.” I feel queasy and confused. The news sits heavy on my chest, making it hard to get my breath.
“I mean, seriously, didn’t you ever wonder? How did we, how did Sharon, who couldn’t even scrape enough quarters together for the laundromat some weeks, how did she have some distant relative who left her a million-dollar home in Westport?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t in Connecticut anymore. I was only seventeen, Krystle.” I am furious at the way she has pivoted from her deception to my gullibility. “You lied to me. For years.”
“Because you didn’t want to know, that’s why. You never thought, gee, what a coincidence! A month after rape charges are dropped against Paul Adamson, who lives in Westport, my mother inherits a million-dollar house in … wait for it … Westport!”
Her nastiness is palpable, and her sobs and pleas have been replaced by cruel, cutting remarks. I rack my brain trying to recall some hint of this scheme, some clue that this was going on. But I can’t come up with anything. “I don’t remember if I knew that Paul lived in Westport.”
“Give me a break. You knew every freaking detail about him. You knew his zodiac sign. You knew his favorite Dunkin’ Donut flavor. You were obsessed with him, Allie.”
“That’s not fair. And it doesn’t excuse what you did. What you and Mom did was wrong.” But her words ricochet within me, triggering a cascade of thoughts. Was Krystle right? Had I tucked away everything about that time in my life out of shame, because I didn’t want to carry that part of my past with me? I packed it away as if it belonged to another person in another life. But it belonged to me. It shaped me and who I’ve become.
But now I need to face it, all of it.
“How did it all happen?” I ask, my tone cool. I can’t trigger a reaction from her now. There will be time for recriminations later. I need the truth. “Exactly how did we get the house?”
“Sharon and I made it happen, that’s how. You can thank us that you never had to take a single loan out for college or art school.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll never forget when that lady came to our apartment looking for you. It was a Saturday; you weren’t home. She was borderline hysterical. She wanted to make the whole thing go away for her precious Paul. She offered Sharon money to drop the charges.”
“What did Sharon say?” I picture a faceless woman at the doorway to our dark, cluttered apartment, begging a sneering Sharon for help. How much my mother would have enjoyed that, holding that kind of power over someone else.
“She told her to get lost,” Krystle says. “But then I guess Sharon changed her mind. The lady left her phone number, and when Sharon called later, she told us to meet her at her house in Westport. She didn’t want to risk anyone seeing her in town again. Paul was arrested by then. Tampering with a witness is a crime, you know.”
“I remember when you guys took that trip,” I say. “You told me some story about a job interview, how Sharon had to drive you.”
“We drove down there to her house. It was beautiful.”
Their duplicity disgusts me. All those secretive talks they must have had—Don’t tell Alexis! I wonder who cooked up the elderly aunt story. Fury rises in me. All these years that I’ve been looking after the two of them, they were probably laughing behind my back.
“I only saw it once,” I say through clenched teeth. That was five years ago when I moved Sharon out of it and into her first assisted living facility. At the end of the long gravel driveway sat a modest white farmhouse enveloped by a wraparound porch. The house was simple, just six rooms with one full bathroom—it didn’t even have central air-conditioning, but what it did boast was a sloping green lawn that stretched down to the Long Island Sound.
“The house was no big deal, but the view was amazing,” Krystle says in a faraway voice that makes me want to scream at her, bring her back to reality. The reality in which her and Sharon’s actions may be what’s led to my life being destroyed. “I knew right away that what Margaret was offering wasn’t enough. If she thought Sharon and I would be all cowed, she miscalculated. It was more like, whoa, this lady is seriously lowballing us. So we improvised.” Her tone is mischievous, proud.
“What do you mean, improvised?” The word catches in my throat. Dread fills me. This is getting even worse. A glance at the clock on the bedside tells me that I need to get going if I am going to make it to Zucker’s office by five. I start down the stairs.
“We told her you were pregnant,” Krystle says, pride in her voice. “I even cried, acted freaked out, so concerned for my big sister. And I could see this lady’s face doing the calculations. Prison for her precious husband, some bastard kid in their lives forever. Child support. That’s a lot of freaking money for the next eighteen years. Then Sharon just went for it.”
I inhale sharply and stop short on the stairs. “You did what?”
“Sharon said, ‘Give me the house, and it’ll all go away. I’ll make sure Alexis has an abortion, and you’ll never hear from us again.’ I couldn’t believe when that lady said yes. It was that easy.”
“That’s when Sharon sent me to San Francisco.” At the time, my mother acted as if the only concern she had was for my well-being. I didn’t want to press charges, because I still thought I was in love with Paul. And in the middle of all that, Sharon took me aside and said I should go stay with a third cousin in the Bay Area.
That a police investigation would ruin my life.
That, if I stayed, the shame of what I had done would cling to me like a bad smell I could never wash off.
That she was only thinking of me.
She bought me a one-way ticket, drove me to the airport, and gave me one hundred dollars jammed in an envelope to go start a new life. I felt understood and supported by her for the first time, so grateful that she wasn’t forcing me to cooperate with police de
tectives who looked at me like I was trash. One of them told me that I wasn’t worth ruining a man’s life over but that the notoriety of the case had forced the department to pursue it.
And the whole time, my mother was covering her ass, getting me out of town so I wouldn’t ask too many questions. “His poor wife.”
“Of course,” Krystle says, “I think hormones had, like, everything to do with it.”
“What does that mean?” Dread blooms within me.
“She was pregnant.”
Krystle’s words seize me on a primal level. A realization claws its way up from the depths of my consciousness like a feral animal desperate for air. “If she was around the same age as Paul, she would be in her mid- to late forties now,” I say. “And that baby would be a teenager.”
53
From below, I hear the familiar jingle of the bell on the back door. I freeze.
“I have to call you back,” I whisper. “I think someone is in the house.” I hang up and tiptoe down the stairs, on alert for any more sounds. The house is silent, save for the patter of rain against the windows. I cross the dining room into the kitchen. I don’t see anyone.
“Hey.”
I spin around and face Dustin. He takes a small step toward me, a twisted frown on his face. I search his dark, menacing eyes, his pinched face, for any sign of Paul. Could this be his son?
“You’d better go, Dustin.”
“But I want to show you something.”
I back up until I am against the wall.
“You lied to me. You gave me the address of my babysitter, knowing I would go there and confront her.”
“I gave you the address of the network,” Dustin says. “That’s all. I didn’t tell you to confront someone.”
“Well, I did. Based on your lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie. That network is unsecured. Anyone within range could use it.”
“If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that. I could get in real trouble. I’m on probation.”
I take out my phone. “I’m calling 911.” My shaking finger pecks at the small screen. Before I can finish, Dustin is upon me and has my wrist in a tight grip. A searing pain shoots up my forearm as he twists.
“I said, I can’t let you do that.”
I kick his ankle with my foot, and our legs become entangled. We tumble, landing on the floor. He’s on top of me, smelling of sweat and grease, weighing me down, his pointy elbow digging into my ribs. My phone skids away from me.
We writhe together on the dusty floor. I am blind to my surroundings, can see only the black of his sweatshirt inches from my eyes, breathing in his rank odor. If I can only maneuver myself about a foot to my right, I know I can reach my phone.
I hear a thud from above, then feel a sudden jerk. All movement stops. Dustin’s body collapses upon mine, deadweight. I grab his head with both hands and push him to one side. I lie there, gasping for air. I feel something warm and sticky on my hands. When I bring my hands to my face, I see the substance that coats my palms is red. Dustin’s blood.
I let out a scream.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now.” Above me stands Daisy, our brass-handled fire poker dangling at her side. She drops it, and the clang of metal on wood echoes in the empty kitchen.
“Are you all right, Allie?” She crouches next to me, pulling my legs out from under Dustin’s inert body. “I can’t believe I did that.”
Blood pours from a gash in the back of his head, pooling on the oak floor. I struggle to speak, but my throat has closed. I nod instead.
“Hold on. I’m going to call 911.” She stands up, puts her phone to her ear, and begins pacing back and forth. “Yes, an emergency. A boy has been hit on the head, and he’s bleeding.” I hear her state my address and then repeat it. “Pulse? Hold on.” She stares at me wide-eyed, motioning with her hand. But I am frozen. Daisy drops to her knees and puts her fingers to his neck.
“Yes. He has a pulse.” Daisy stands up. “No, we won’t. Okay, all right.” She pockets her phone. “They’re on their way. They want us to open the front door. God, I feel terrible. I just saw him attacking you, and I panicked.”
I’m staring at Daisy’s hands, which look ghostly. I realize she is wearing clear plastic gloves.
“Are you all right, Allie?”
She follows my eyes to her hands. “Oh, these things?” She laughs her girlish laugh and peels them off, pushing them deep into the front pocket of her jeans. “I was doing a little touch-up painting at the Beckerman place.”
My phone pings on the floor where it has landed.
Both Daisy and I look at it.
Neither of us moves.
It pings again, and I reach for it. The message is from Madeline Ashford.
“Found her. Sorry for poor quality.”
Margaret Cooper, our tulip bulb expert at work! Below that is a grainy image of a woman on her knees next to a flower bed, wearing gardening gloves. The black-and-white image is of poor quality, but I would recognize that face anywhere. The round apple cheeks. The light, curly hair.
I look up at Daisy. “It’s you. You’re Margaret Cooper.”
54
“Let’s see.” She grabs the phone from me and squints at it. “Gosh, I look so young.” I look up into her wide face, her clear blue eyes that forecast innocence.
“You changed your name.”
“Not really. Daisy is short for Margaret; didn’t you know that? Marguerite means ‘Daisy’ in French.” A small smile appears on the edges of her lips. She exhales deeply as if she’s been holding her breath for a long time. “I always hated Margaret. Maggie, Meg, Peg. Such awful stick-in-the-mud nicknames. I always wanted to be Daisy, and when I moved to D.C. after Paul died to start over, I saw my chance. It took a long time, but I finally met Trip. Took his last name when we married. I built a life. Being a stepmom wasn’t my first choice, but I had a family, even if things weren’t always perfect. I told no one about my past. I put it all behind me. Imagine my surprise when six months ago Sexy Lexi Healy walks into Periscope Realty looking for a house.”
“I had no idea.”
“Oh, I know. I could tell. To you, I was just another boring, middle-aged woman. You with your perfect husband and child, looking for your forever home. Rubbing it in my face, all the things I didn’t have.”
“It was a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” she says with certainty. “It was like God was delivering you into my hands. I had the whole summer to get everything into place. I was ready when you moved in.”
A shudder runs through me as reality sinks in. “There’s no ambulance coming, is there?” The words come out in a whisper.
“Oh, Allie. Or maybe I should call you Lexi? I told you not to hire Dustin,” she says. “I told you to leave him out of this, so this is really your fault.”
I brush the hair off Dustin’s forehead and stare into his vacant eyes.
“Breathe,” I tell him.
“Bludgeoned with your poker.” Daisy kicks the monogrammed fire poker away from us. “I think it’s pretty obvious what people will believe.”
“You can’t think you’re going to get away with this.” I stand, sizing her up. Daisy has at least thirty pounds on me. I’ll have to push past her to get to the back door. Once outside, I’ll run to Heather’s, to Leah’s, to anyone’s.
“Would you like some wine, Allie?” She walks to the fridge and takes out a bottle. “I know you love your Matua.”
She begins emptying it into the sink. I don’t know what she’s up to, and I do not wait to find out. I run toward the back door and yank it open. Freedom. I gulp in the cool air.
Then a shooting pain rockets up my arm as she yanks me back. I am struggling to free myself from her grip when a hot stab, like that of a wasp, pricks me in the back of my arm. I shriek and spin around to see her holding a hypodermic needle.
Daisy
retreats a few steps, smiling.
“I’m going to the police,” I mutter. But even as the words come out of my mouth, my knees begin to buckle. I sway, catching the doorframe for support.
“Are you?” she asks. “I figure with the amount of liquid Ambien you have in your system, you’re not going anywhere.”
Daisy jerks me back inside and slams the door shut.
“Liquid Ambien,” I repeat in a hoarse whisper.
“Just like on International Night,” she says. “So easy, you and your wine, your champagne. It will work a lot faster this time, of course, being intravenous. Now, the kitchen isn’t a good place to commit suicide. Not what I have in mind at all.”
55
“No.” The word is heavy in my mouth. With great effort, I stand up straight. I can see Heather’s kitchen window through my back door. If I can get outside, if I can get to Heather’s, I’ll be okay. I reach for the handle on the back door, but Daisy grabs my wrist.
“Oh no, wrong direction.” She spins me around so she is behind me, and I am facing the kitchen. I am about to protest when she jabs something hard into my lower back. I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know she is holding a small handgun, but I do.
“Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”
The Ambien slows me down, making it difficult to walk. We stumble through the kitchen and dining room. In the foyer, a surge of vigor courses through me, and I lunge at the wall where the light switches are, managing to flip them on and then off.
“Sending out a code to the neighbors?” Daisy yanks me onto the stairs. “That’s one of the things Paul and I really loved about the Westport house—the privacy. Not like the Eastbrook neighborhood, right?” I pause on the landing, breathing hard. “Everyone up in your business. You can’t take a poop in this neighborhood without someone asking you how it turned out.” She giggles at her own joke. Her cheer makes my skin crawl.
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