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

by Cathryn Grant

  I stood there, looking at her, my arms hanging at my sides, not folded in defense, my feet planted about twenty inches apart. It was an intimidating stance without a shred of uncertainty.

  Tess rubbed her hands together, grabbed the handles of the weight machine again, and began lifting the stack of iron blocks — one hundred pounds. She ran through ten reps without a break in her rhythm. She let go of the handles and rested.

  I went to the leg machines and settled into the reclining leg press. I could do leg presses all day. It’s soothing and doesn’t require the concentration demanded by some of the other machines. I mindlessly bent and straightened my legs, trying to figure out how to push her harder.

  33

  When I came into the house after girl time at Tess’s gym, my mind was still circling around how I was going to find a way to either make Tess fight harder for me, or go around her to find another ally. What I’d reminded her of was the absolute truth, and she shouldn’t have brushed it off as if it wasn’t important — I had not asked for the raise, she offered it. I’d re-configured my budget and calculated my exit from Noreen’s loony bin based on Tess’s confidence.

  Noreen was in the kitchen wearing a little yellow apron with a red bird on it. As I stepped into the great room, she turned toward the fridge and I saw the sash tied in a big puffy bow. I hurried toward the hallway but my heels made too much noise on the tile, even with my effort to take gentle steps.

  She came out of the kitchen, shot across the room, and blocked my way. “I made lasagna.”

  “Jared doesn’t eat…”

  “His diet doesn’t matter. He’s never here at dinnertime. I don’t think he likes us.” She waved a spatula coated in white cheese with streaks of tomato sauce.

  She had part of that right. “And you’re okay? Ready to let go of him?”

  “No. I’m hurt. I have to figure out a new plan of attack.”

  “Why are you so set on a guy who’s obviously not interested?”

  “Let’s talk about it over dinner. I bought two bottles of Pinot Noir.”

  The lure of wine, coupled with noodles full of carbs, overcame my reluctance to eat dinner with her. Besides, freeing my mind from trying so hard to come up with a solution for the Tess problem might allow the answer to emerge.

  “Please?” She pouted. She held out the spatula, waving it under my nose.

  “Bribery isn’t necessary.”

  She smiled. “So that means yes?”

  I nodded. I went into my room and dropped my purse on the chair. I kicked off my black patent leather pumps — a bit showy for the office, but Tess hadn’t said a word. I hadn’t detected more than one or two raised eyebrows in the hallways, from women of course. The men all loved the patent leather, although they wouldn’t let on by giving my feet more than a passing glance, and they certainly wouldn’t allow their mouths to twist into looks of hunger and curiosity.

  Once my skirt and top were hanging in the closet, I peeled off my pantyhose and dropped them in the lingerie wash bag. I took off my bra and thong and added them to the mix. I stood naked in front of the closet, trying to determine my mood. Finally I settled on thick white sweatpants and a blue off the shoulder crop top, no underwear at all. This would be a total comfort evening. I almost looked forward to it. During my workout, I’d been so irritated by Tess’s failure and lack of focus, I used heavier weights than normal and now my muscles were pleasantly weak and ready to be nourished with thick, fatty food. I put my hair in a ponytail and pulled the hair through the elastic again, creating a floppy knot on top of my head. I went into the bathroom and removed my makeup without the benefit of a mirror. I put on face cream that made me feel like I’d bathed in silk.

  In the great room, all the lights were off. The dining table had a single white taper candle in the center. She’d put out beige woven placemats and off-white cloth napkins.

  “This is a bit formal, isn’t it?” I picked up the glass of wine on the bar separating the kitchen and great room. I took a sip. It was very good. I turned the bottle to face me — David Bruce 2013.

  “I wanted it to be nice. You can sit, the food’s ready.” Noreen put a large ceramic bowl with lettuce, avocado pieces, red kidney beans, and small slivers of yellow bell paper on the table. It shimmered with an herbal oil and vinegar dressing. She’d heated the bread with butter and fresh garlic.

  “I didn’t know you were such a good cook,” I said.

  “You didn’t give me a chance.”

  I sipped my wine. It wasn’t true, she hadn’t given me a chance — going from weird to batshit crazy in sixty seconds.

  She served large portions of lasagna onto dinner plates and carried them to the table. I scooped out salad and placed two pieces of bread on the edge of my plate. I took a large bite of bread and drank some more wine.

  “What do you think I’m doing wrong with him?” she said.

  I took a bite of lasagna. “This is fantastic.”

  She giggled. “It’s hard to mess up lasagna.” She pushed her hair off her face and reached for the bread. Her fingers scrabbled across the golden brown crusts, looking for a slice that satisfied whatever criteria she was using.

  “I suppose so,” I said. “But this is better than most.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You’re trying too hard.”

  “I don’t like being alone.”

  “No one likes to be stalked.”

  “I’m not stalking him.”

  “Pretty close to it.”

  She sighed. She took a long swallow of wine. When she put down her glass, she was a bit emphatic and the candle flame wavered.

  “Do you think he could be interested, if I played hard to get?”

  “You shouldn’t play anything.”

  “That’s how it works.”

  In my case, she was close to the truth — there is a lot of playing, the game is thrilling, it’s what gets me out of bed in the morning. But most people don’t play games to acquire the things they want. They set goals, they pray and trust their hard work and intuition and all kinds of things I don’t believe in. I play. It’s more fun and equally effective. But it’s a different kind of game and not what Noreen was looking for.

  “Find something else to occupy your time. Give him a little space.”

  “That’s what everyone says.”

  All I was doing was echoing conventional wisdom. Wisdom she apparently wasn’t interested in following.

  “I just like him so much. And I’m so lonely.”

  “Being alone can be a good thing.”

  She shook her head. “It’s been awful since Brian left.”

  “So Jared’s just a guy to slot into the place Brian vacated?”

  “No. Don’t make it sound so cold. I like Jared. A lot. He’s cute and he’s so nice, and he’s…Brian hurt me.”

  “Maybe you need more space yourself, before you jump into another relationship.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You could talk to a therapist, about why it’s taking you so long to get over Brian.”

  I would never go to a therapist. They know crazy from first-hand experience. And their talking and listening and questioning is mostly bullshit. But it’s a normal solution to recommend, and if you suggest it nicely, with a note of kindness, people interpret that as genuine concern. And in her case, I hoped a therapist could tone her down with a few well-prescribed meds.

  “I don’t think it’s taking that long,” she said.

  My lasagna was nearly gone. I could manage maybe one more piece of bread. The wine bottle was two thirds empty. I refilled my glass and took a fourth piece of bread. I nibbled it slowly. “How long since he left?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure. How long have you been here? He left a week or two before you moved in.”

  A week or two? How had I gotten the idea it was months, maybe a year or longer? She’d declared their shared investment to be her own home in less than two weeks�
� time? My earlier concern that he might not consider the house hers to rent space in returned with greater force. I studied her face in the candlelight. She didn’t look insane, but madness isn’t always visible.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes, there is. You have a funny look on your face.”

  “I just thought it had been longer, since he left.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s the impression you gave, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

  It mattered a lot. Withholding that information felt like a lie. Not that I could judge her for lying, she did what she had to do to fill those rooms and get money flowing into the house. Or maybe it wasn’t about money at all. Maybe it was about not being capable of living alone. She’d tried to get us eating together, tried to get Jared into her bed, tried to set up girl nights with me. She was a little kid, never developed past the middle of high school because she became an instant adult by moving out of her parents’ house to be with her boyfriend. I’m not a psychologist, but it seemed to make sense. At the end of the day, she was needy and dependent, whatever the cause.

  As if she’d read my mind, Noreen put down her fork. She pushed her plate away. “I didn’t like being here by myself. Brian was angry when he left and I…I think he’s planning to kill me.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure not.”

  She looked at me and said nothing. Her eyes seemed to be jittering inside her skull, as if there was something else she wanted to say.

  “So we’re your body guards?”

  She looked down at her plate. She turned her fork over and pushed a kidney bean into a puddle of leftover tomato sauce. She pushed out her chair and stood up. She picked up her wine glass. “Come here. I want to show you something.” She went to the door that opened from the dining area into the side yard. I splashed the last of the wine in my glass and followed.

  Noreen crossed the yard to the shed tucked in the back corner, turned the combination dial, and unclasped the lock. She slid open the door and stepped to the side. She pulled out her phone and shone her flashlight app into the opening.

  A tall dresser with six drawers, an armchair, an old fashioned shipping trunk, and a few other pieces of furniture, including a hospital-style bed, were stacked in one half, floor to ceiling. Another third was occupied by packing boxes. The only gardening supplies sat on a two-foot table near the front left and hung from a few hooks bolted to the metal wall.

  “He didn’t even take his stuff. So I know he’s coming back.”

  Of course he’d come back, but not to kill her as she feared, spinning irrational thoughts out of nothing. The IKEA furniture and a few cardboard boxes were not the draw either. He’d be back for the several hundred thousand dollars sunk in the bungalow, money she obviously still owed him. “What’s with the hospital bed?”

  Noreen blinked and turned away. She stepped inside the shed. She went to one of the boxes. The flaps weren’t tucked in place like the others. She pulled one back. “Come look at this.”

  I took a sip of wine and stepped onto the plywood floor. I went to her side.

  Using just her fingertip, as if she was afraid there was a large poisonous spider lying in wait, she pressed the flap down so I could see inside the box.

  On top of a stack of bills and other papers was a photograph of Noreen holding a beagle puppy. I assumed it was Terry. Precisely cut holes had been drilled through the stiff paper, removing Noreen’s eyes. With her pale skin and solemn expression and missing eyes, she looked like a corpse.

  34

  Los Angeles

  Reaching over the edge of that swimming pool, across a span of water eight feet deep, and turning Dianne onto her back was one of the hardest things I’d had to do in my twenty years of life thus far. The navy blue bikini covered with a sheer white top that clung to her sopping skin suggested it was Dianne. Her light brown hair, straight as blades of grass, cut blunt to the top of her shoulders drifted around her head. But I still had to see her face, to be absolutely sure. I was terrified of what I’d find, and terrified that seeing required me to kneel by the side of a huge pool of water and lean out over its life-swallowing depth to grab her ankle, risking falling in and sinking to the chalky bottom.

  A better friend would have tried to drag her out of the pool, but I suppose we weren’t really friends at all.

  As the body turned, I saw her face, her empty eyes, her partially opened mouth, the tongue trying to push its way out. I scrambled away from the water like a crab. I half stood and stumbled to one of the poolside chaise lounges. Obviously the police should be called, but the murder game gripped my mind, hissing that I take my time to think things through. The longer I sat there debating with myself, the greater the chance of someone looking out of an apartment, seeing the horrific scene, and wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I wasn’t crying. I doubt I looked like I was in shock. I was simply lounging by the side of the pool while a woman’s corpse bobbed and drifted in the water a few yards in front of me.

  Lisa was presumably still locked in a cold classroom taking a final exam, but I had no idea which one or what her exam schedule was like for the rest of the day. She might arrive in five minutes or another three hours, and I needed to talk to her before police started crawling around. What if they came and asked me questions and she showed up, clueless that Dianne was dead, and clueless about what I’d told them? I couldn’t imagine Lisa lying to a detective, but neither could I imagine her voluntarily telling them about the murder game. It would be a simple lie of omission, but knowing Lisa, that would just as easily pierce her extremely alert conscience.

  I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Lisa. Need to talk asap.

  I almost typed more, and then thought about police and their investigative thoroughness, potentially wanting to view phone records. Vague was best. I deleted asap and hit send. Lisa and I rarely texted each other. The fact I was wanting to talk and the timing in the middle of finals would be enough to alert her that something wasn’t right. The minute she was out of class, I’d hear from her. I cradled my phone in both hands, staring at the screen as if I could will her to respond.

  After ten minutes, it was time to call the police. Waiting longer would stir up other problems. Maybe I could delay them by calling non-emergency, but no such luck. Eight minutes later, they were there. I was inelegantly led away from the pool area to a chair in the clubhouse where I couldn’t see anything. A detective with a buzz cut and a platinum hoop in his ear, who looked as if he’d just graduated from high school, seated himself across from me. He asked my name. My phone chimed and I looked down.

  “Please put that away for a few minutes,” the detective said. “It can wait until we’re finished.”

  I shoved the phone between my thighs, hoping Lisa realized today was not the day to bare her soul in an effort to ensure she continued on her path to law school with pristine ethics.

  Once he’d calmed his obvious irritation that I prioritized my phone over a police officer, he moved onto a series of questions that were pleasantly innocuous. He wanted the first and last names of my roommates, the name on the apartment lease, the length of time each of us had lived there, and what I’d seen when I found the body. I admitted to turning Dianne on her back, figuring it would paint me as a painfully truthful, if careless person. He wanted to know what time I left for school, what building my final exam was held in, and what time I’d arrived back at the apartment. I fudged on the times. He wanted me to relate each thing I did before calling. Then, he asked me to describe Dianne’s party habits. I said no drugs besides alcohol, as far as I knew.

  The only tricky question was the last one. Tricky because I didn’t know what Lisa or Randy might say. Or Tom, for that matter. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?” he said.

  “Do you mean kill her?”

  He stared at me as if I was being deliberately dense. I stared back, holding his gaze u
ntil he looked down at the tablet where he was jotting notes. “Yes,” he said.

  I couldn’t hesitate for too long. It would make him question my carefully constructed truthfulness. “Not off the top of my head.” I gave him a sad smile.

  He seemed satisfied. I was impressed with myself. Cool under pressure — that’s me.

  He stood up and I did the same. I glanced at the door leading to the patio. Lisa was just outside, talking to a uniformed cop. A moment later, she came into the clubhouse and I was told to leave.

  Outside, I stood in an alcove by the soda and ice machines. I put my hands over my mouth and watched as the paramedics lifted Dianne’s body out of the water and placed her on the concrete. They covered her quickly with a thick black tarp.

  We weren’t allowed in our apartment until they were done going through it, opening every drawer in Dianne’s room and inspecting every hair and nail clipping in the bathroom. Two cops lingered around the pool. It was dinner time when they left and Lisa and I were finally able to compare notes. We dragged ourselves up the stairs, drained from standing around in the warm afternoon air for hours, sleepy with boredom. I opened a bottle of icy cold Pinot Grigio and poured two generous glasses. I sat at the table and sipped my wine while Lisa started making mac and cheese.

  Neither of us spoke. After a while, the water boiled and she poured dry macaroni into the pot.

  “It took you a long time to answer my text,” I said.

  “I was in my psych final.”

  “Really?”

  “What?” She took a sip from the wine glass and stirred the macaroni.

  “Did you kill her?”

  She let go of the spoon and turned quickly. “Of course not! Why would you say that?” She slammed the wine glass down on the counter. Wine splashed onto the back of her hand. “I would never…”

  “After what Tom did…”

  “That was him! Not her, as awful as she was. And…”

  “She was so casual about what he did to you. She must have known, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I would never kill a living soul. Never! Not even him, even if he deserves it.”