The Woman In the Mirror: (A Psychological Suspense Novel) (Alexandra Mallory Book 1)

by Cathryn Grant

  “No you didn’t.”

  “When you wanted to know where Noreen is.”

  “Oh. Who should I say is calling? You sounded like the butler.” He laughed.

  “Are you her brother?”

  “She hasn’t spoken to her brother since she was a kid.”

  “Are you her ex?”

  “I wasn’t aware she had an ex.” He studied me as if he hoped to receive more information without asking.

  The wine glass was slippery in my hand. I clenched my fingers, hoping for a firmer grip, although that’s difficult with a sweaty glass and warm fingers. I inched my fingers lower so they were wrapped around the smaller part instead of stretched out trying to keep the sides from making a move through my fingers. I took a drag on my cigarette.

  “Can I bum one?” he said.

  I held the cigarette between my teeth, picked up the pack off the ground, and handed it to him. The lighter was inside the box.

  He pulled one out, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it.

  “Where can I sit?”

  “Did I invite you to sit?”

  “Is this your house?” he said.

  “No.”

  “Then why do I need an invitation?”

  “Well I live here, even though it’s not technically mine.”

  “Whose is it, technically?”

  “You’re asking a lot of questions without identifying yourself.”

  “What difference would it make? I know Noreen, and my name wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

  “How do you know?” He was giving me a warm, glowing feeling, and it wasn’t just from the pretty lady comment. I’m not a lady. A lady is someone from another era. Modern, self-sufficient women don’t view themselves as ladies. But still…

  Why was I thinking about that?

  I took a puff on my cigarette and a sip of wine. It was his turn to talk. I was sure he wasn’t going to reveal his name. It seemed as if I should be worried about that, my spidey sense should be vibrating all over the place, but it wasn’t. He felt safe. He seemed decent. It’s funny how you can pick up on those things, except, sometimes you’re wrong.

  “Great beach day,” he said. “How come you’re sitting by a pile of dirt staring at the street?”

  “I like it here.”

  He nodded. “Lived here long?”

  “TMI for a guy who remains nameless.”

  “I haven’t heard your name either.”

  “I asked first.”

  “That again?”

  “Yep.” As I lifted my hand to tap the growing stem of ash on the end of my cigarette, the column of ash broke away and landed on my leg. I put the cigarette between my lips and moved the wine glass to my other hand so I could clean up the mess.

  He reached over and brushed the ashes off my jeans. It happened quickly. The gesture was tender, so intimate, I stopped breathing for a moment. The warmth of his fingers went through the denim and sent a shiver up the inside of my leg, making its way to my throat before I could start breathing again. I swallowed. I started to speak, to tell him I could brush away my own damn ashes, but my voice came out in an awkward cough.

  “You okay?” he said.

  I nodded and took a healthy sip of wine. It made me cough more. I took another sip and a drag on my cigarette and then I was fine. Except for the lingering shiver. “Are you planning to sit here until Noreen gets home?” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “It’ll be after dinner.”

  “You said that. Am I bothering you?”

  He was definitely bothering me, in a different way than he assumed. I didn’t like that I was drawn to him, because I intended to steer a wide path around anyone connected to Noreen. The wise choice was to shut down the conversation, pick up my glass and smokes and go into the house. But I didn’t want to. I could sit there all afternoon, not knowing his name, smoking, talking in lazy circles. I thought about offering him a glass of wine. “You’re not bothering me,” I said.

  “But you had to think about it.”

  “Not really. I don’t understand why your name is top secret.”

  “Isn’t it more fun this way? Two strangers enjoying a smoke and the sun?”

  I shrugged. I sipped my wine. He looked hungrily at the wine, but I was definitely not going to offer him a glass. The problem was, mine was almost empty and I wanted more.

  14

  After the Boxster-guy left, the wind kicked up. As the sun went down, the wind grew stronger. Shortly after, a knocking sound began to echo through the house, made louder by the tile floor. I went to the front door, wondering if Boxster-guy had returned. No one was there. I walked to the doors leading to the back deck. The cliff-hugging tree was batting its branches against the deck railing.

  It annoyed me that I was still thinking about that guy, expecting him, longing for him badly enough that my mind tricked itself into thinking a tree branch was his hand on the door.

  We’d smoked my entire pack of cigarettes and talked about nonsense. I’d managed to resist the temptation to offer him a glass of wine, which meant I hadn’t been able to refill mine. He said he’d be back but didn’t specify whether it would be that evening or another day. He declined to leave a message for Noreen. As soon as his car turned the corner at the end of the street, I wished I’d offered the wine.

  I wasn’t sure whether I should tell Noreen about her visitor. If I mentioned the car, would she know who it belonged to? Even if the car was new and she wasn’t aware of it, I’d be able to describe him well enough. Besides, how many guys came by to see her? I couldn’t shake the feeling he seemed like her twin. It was eery how much they looked alike, yet not. Even their mannerisms struck a similar note. She’d mentioned her estranged brother, but hadn’t noted he was a twin. In my experience, most twins are so consumed with the wonder of being a twin they tell you right away, trying to impress you with their place in the world — taking up twice as much space as everyone else.

  Jared must have gone straight to his room the minute he arrived home. The only reason I knew he was in there was I’d heard him flush the toilet and then his bedroom door opened and closed.

  About ten minutes after that, there was a knock on my door.

  I was sitting on my bed drinking the rest of the Pinot Grig and watching The Following on my tablet. I’d found the show in Noreen’s streaming account. I’d asked her twice how much I owed for access, but she insisted it was a free perk because we were friends. The show was quite addictive. At the start of each episode, I told myself it was the last, and then I’d read the teaser for the next one. I’d think about the rough, cynical sexiness of Kevin Bacon and hit play. Not to mention the serial killer that gave the show its name. He was a gory, horror show of a person, but between his sublime mouth, alluring eyes, and that British accent, it wasn’t hard to see how someone like him might acquire quite a following.

  I got up and opened the door. Noreen yawned and stretched, making a big production of how tired she was, and said she was going to sleep.

  After she went into her room and closed the door, I carried my wine through the great room to the French doors that opened onto the deck. The tree was swaying and bending over the house like a huge, shadowy figure trying to look inside. I took a sip of wine and went into the kitchen. I got out the vodka and vermouth and a shot glass. I poured the alcohol and ice into the shaker. I wrapped the shaker in a towel to muffle the noise and moved it back and forth gently, hoping to avoid drawing Noreen out to the kitchen for a drink and a chat. No matter how tired she was, I didn’t think she could resist a martini.

  The house was dark and silent.

  I took the almost empty wine glass and the martini to the great room and sat on the couch. It felt good to stretch out. My room was nice, but it was small, and sometimes it’s critical to feel empty space around you, to move without obstacles, to stretch out your legs instead of trying to maintain a comfortable position sitting in bed with pillows propped against the headboard. Watchin
g a movie while sitting in my small armchair wasn’t always appealing, but I get twitchy and jumpy when I sit too long in bed.

  I leaned back, propped my feet on the table, closed my eyes, and finished the wine, letting it wash through the inside of my head.

  The martini was a perfect biting cold and the alcohol unwound all the twitching muscles in my legs. I pointed my toes, barely visible in the darkness. The branch began knocking again. Even though I knew it was the branch, the impulse to check the front door kept returning. My body remembered his fingers brushing away the ashes. I took another sip of the martini.

  A door opened. I held my breath and supported my glass with two hands so I didn’t spill on my lap.

  Bare feet tapped the tile floor in the hallway.

  I moved my glass close to my lips and tipped it to let the liquid slide into my mouth.

  There was another sound of flesh on tile.

  From where I was seated, I had a view of Jared’s door. Noreen stepped across the hall from her room and stood in front of his. Her long, streaked hair glistened in the semi-darkness. She wore a thong and a silky, clingy camisole. It was impossible to tell their color in the dim light filtering into the hallway from the open door of her room — maybe cream or pale yellow. I wanted to grab her hair and smack her face. Why was she so completely lacking any radar toward the opposite sex? Was this what came of a girl shoved into adult life before she was fully raised? Although, lots of girls slip away from the parental influence before they’re fully grown, and they don’t enter the world without any shred of pride.

  She put her hand on the door, palm flat, her fingers spread. Did she think he was going to feel her vibe, sense the heat coming from her skin and open the door?

  I sipped my drink and waited.

  She stood with her hand on the door for several minutes, mustering up her courage, or hoping he might receive a supernatural revelation that she was waiting.

  Finally, she tapped one finger on the door.

  Nothing.

  She knocked gently.

  Nothing.

  She knocked harder. Then, she started knocking faster and didn’t stop. The noise drowned out the tree branch, it filled the house and started to feel as if it was pounding inside my head. Her wrist didn’t appear to grow tired as the steady beat continued. It went on for two minutes, maybe more. My drink was half gone when Jared shouted — What do you want? Funny, he didn’t shout who is it?

  “It’s Noreen.”

  I suppressed a giggle — a result of sipping the martini too fast, right on top of a glass of wine.

  “I’m trying to sleep.” His voice was still loud, as if he hoped to scare her away with sheer volume.

  “I have something for you.”

  Now, I did giggle. Thankfully she didn’t hear me as he continued to speak at an extreme volume, talking over my laughter.

  “Not interested,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Jared, I’d really like to come into your room. I won’t keep you awake more than an hour or so. I…”

  “Please leave me alone.”

  She leaned against the door. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You really don’t.”

  “Okay. Good night,” he said.

  “Jared, please, it’ll only take two seconds to open the door.”

  “You said an hour.”

  “Well two seconds to see what I have for you. The hour is up to you.”

  My face grew warm on her behalf. I plucked an olive out of my drink and sucked it quietly.

  “I said good night,” he shouted.

  Her body seemed to turn to liquid and she slid slowly to the floor. She didn’t move until I’d eaten all three olives and there were only a few sips left in the bottom of my glass.

  She stood up, turned, and squinted. “What are you doing?”

  I held up my glass.

  “Were you there the whole time?”

  “What whole time?” I was mildly buzzed, more interested in being silly than tactful, eager to wind her up.

  “Don’t play dumb. The whole time I was standing here.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “What does that mean?” She walked into the great room and turned on the table lamp. She put her hands on her hips and glared at me like I was a child caught spilling juice on the coffee table.

  I sat up and abandoned my mocking tone. “You’re humiliating yourself.”

  “What business is it of yours? And I’m not.”

  “He’s not interested.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She took a step closer. “What is that?” She pointed at the table, but I couldn’t make out what she was looking at.

  I sat up straighter and peered at the surface. There weren’t any water marks from my glasses that I could see.

  “The wine glass,” she said. “Were you having drinks with him?” She moved closer and grabbed the glass triumphantly, as if holding it proved I was doing something behind her back.

  I laughed.

  “Don’t laugh at me.” She threw the wine glass right at my head.

  I flung myself on my side, knocking the martini glass on the edge of the table. Both glasses shattered. I was afraid to move, not sure whether there was a blanket of glass fragments covering my body.

  “Turn on the other light,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “There’s glass everywhere. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “You were having drinks with him. Otherwise why would there be two glasses?”

  “How could I be having drinks with him? He’s in his bedroom! Turn on the light.”

  “Don’t be a crybaby.”

  “I’m not being a crybaby. There’s glass all over the place and I need to see so I can sit up without getting my skin sliced open. And you need to get a dustpan and broom.”

  A moment later, the room was filled with light. Noreen’s face was red, color spreading across her forehead, up past her hairline, making it seem as if the red of her scalp was glowing through her hair. I reached for a pillow and used it to brush glass off my legs. I sat up carefully. “Will you get some shoes and sweep this up.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. This is my house.”

  “I can’t move.”

  “First tell me when you were having drinks with him. Before I went to his door, obviously.”

  “I didn’t have drinks with him.”

  “I can see two glasses.”

  “I finished my wine and made a martini, you moron.”

  Her eyes grew teary and she turned and left the room. I sat motionless, afraid of slicing my foot or hand if I moved in any direction. She returned a moment later with a pair of flip-flops which were inadequate for the mess. She was wearing a long t-shirt over her seduce Jared outfit.

  She murmured to herself as she swept glass into a dustpan. When it was safe to move, I went into my room, closed the door, and locked it.

  15

  Los Angeles

  When Randy and Lisa and I played the game of how to murder Dianne, we were sitting in the darkness. We didn’t look each other in the eye as Lisa worried over it…every single time. She would eventually get into it, but she had to start with the worry, as if that was part of the game itself, like shuffling cards before a hand of poker. She worried we were bad people, that we were indulging in wicked thoughts that would damage our humanity.

  “That’s what’s wrong with men! You have to extract revenge for everything. You have to turn the slightest inconvenience into an excuse for violence. It’s sickening. The human race will never evolve until men stop behaving like beasts.”

  “It’s a game,” Randy said. “It’s a game.”

  He and I knew that life itself is a game. There are winners and losers. It’s not fair. It’s brutally unfair. Life is blatantly incomprehensibly un-fair. Why are some people born into famine,
under oppressive or brutal regimes? Why are some women born into cultures where they’re stoned to death if they dare to have sex, while other women are born into an environment that grooms them for an exclusive, protective college that provides a stellar education and a lifetime of supportive social connections? A college where everyone cheers them on when they go to Miami for Spring break and run around without the tops to their bathing suits? And that’s just one microscopic, irrational example. Life. Is. Not. Fair. Wonderful children get cancer and die, others are slaughtered by drunk drivers, and kids who are thugs in the making, future prison inmates, skate with perfect health and seeming immunity to death. How do you live with that? Yet, we do.

  After verbalizing her worries, Lisa would get a second drink or take another toke on our joint, and shift to silent worry. Strangely, her guilt and her violent antagonism toward Randy never prevented her from coming up with murderous ideas of her own.

  There aren’t that many ways to kill someone and the game should have run its course after a few weeks, but we found twists and embellishments to keep things going. The murder weapon and type of death were altered, the settings, the participants, the events and conversation leading up to the crime.

  A few weeks after we started playing, Mr. Perfect — Tom Normandy — moved into Dianne’s bedroom. That’s when the trouble escalated.

  The first thing to happen was that Lisa got tossed out of Dianne’s bedroom. Randy and I were told to make room for her in ours. It wasn’t that we didn’t have the space. It was the injustice, and the lack of respect, and the total disregard for Lisa, treating her like a sack of discarded clothes for the Salvation Army truck. But Dianne had all the cards. Or one card, the ace — her rich, clueless mother. We had no cards.

  Tom Normandy was perfect on the outside only. He was everything Mrs. W desired for Dianne — pretty and glamorous. But he was dumb as shit. A nice package with nothing inside.

  It started on a Saturday morning when Lisa was making waffles. Randy and I were at the table drinking coffee. Dianne was still in her room, presumably sleeping. Tom came striding out of Dianne’s bedroom, naked. Lisa blushed and asked him to put on sweats before he ate breakfast with us.