A few agonizing minutes later he finally did, the backhoe revving up with a roar before crunching past us, veering onto the grass to do so, while far behind us the little figures in black filed back up the hill.
“Finally,” I said, watching him trundle away in the rearview mirror just as Julie said, “Shit!”
“What?”
“It’s gone!”
My gaze snapped back to the mausoleum—the black bag had disappeared.
“What the hell? Quick, where are they?” I bolted from the car, forgetting about the possibility of being noticed, forgetting about everything except the need to find the blackmailer. I ran toward the mausoleum, looking around, trying to spot a figure slipping between trees or behind another monument.
Julie came right on my heels. “They’re gone—they found a moment and they took it and the money.” She grabbed my arm, trying to pull me back. “C’mon, we don’t want anyone to see us.”
“How could they slip in and out without us seeing them?” I said. “Where did they go?” I scanned the hillside, the trees, the gravestones and other small buildings—it didn’t seem possible; this person couldn’t have just vanished. All at once I spied a figure in black moving off to the left, running down the hillside. “Down there! Near the trees!” I yelled, stabbing the air with my index finger. “Do you see him?”
Julie shaded her eyes. “Yes, yes!” She ran back toward the car. “Hurry, let’s try to catch him.”
We drove as fast as we could up the road, around the back side of the cemetery, but it was obvious that we weren’t going to catch this guy. He—it looked like a man, but I couldn’t tell for sure—had disappeared over the hillside on foot, and he could have gone in any direction. There was no way of knowing where to look. We drove up and down the roads, eventually finding ourselves back the way we’d come. For all we knew, he’d parked a car outside the cemetery property and run back to it.
The disappointment was palpable. “Do you think he could have been working with the backhoe guy?” I suggested as we drove back out of the cemetery gates. “Maybe that guy purposely blocked us in?”
We’d passed the backhoe operator parked along a road near the front of the cemetery; he’d been kicking back, listening to something on his headphones while another cigarette dangled from his lips.
“I don’t know,” Julie said. “I hope not.” She was drumming on the dashboard again.
What if the backhoe guy wasn’t the only person he’d told—what if there were others who knew? I hadn’t considered the possibility of more than one person knowing or seeing those photos. “We’re screwed.”
“Don’t say that!” Julie said, as I took a left with enough force to pull her sideways in her seat, knocking her hand off the dash. “We paid the money, it’s over.”
“Is that the way it typically works with blackmail?” I said, unable to contain my frustration any longer. “Do blackmailers typically just take the money and people never hear from them again?”
“I have no idea what’s typical,” Julie said in a prissy voice, clearly choosing to ignore my sarcasm. “Look, we didn’t catch him, but that doesn’t mean that everything failed—he got the money he asked for. We just have to stay calm.”
“You know, I don’t think we’re going to be able to fix this with positive thinking,” I snarled, accelerating up Blackburn Road.
“Well, we certainly aren’t going to fix it with drinking.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I know you’ve spiked your sippy cup.”
“It’s Irish coffee. Lots of people have it that way.”
“Sure. You can explain that to the cops when you get pulled over for speeding.”
“Shut up, Julie, okay? Because I really can’t take any more crap right now.” I was practically spitting I was so pissed off, but I did slow down, my hands knotted on the wheel so tight I could see the bones.
Apparently I wasn’t the only angry one: Julie looked like she wanted to hit me, but she crossed her arms instead, turning her back and staring out the passenger window.
“We need to call Alison and Heather,” I said after a few minutes of silent driving. Julie didn’t respond and wouldn’t look at me. Another few minutes passed and I tried again. “It’s no use blaming me—it’s not my fault this didn’t work out.”
“No one’s blaming you, Sarah, except for telling me to shut up. That I am blaming you for.”
I sighed. “Okay, I’m sorry I told you to shut up.”
She finally looked at me. “And I’m sorry I commented on your driving.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’re sorry for commenting on my coffee?”
She pursed her lips for a moment before saying in her most holier-than-thou voice, “If that’s what you need to hear.”
I laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I couldn’t stop a smile from slipping out. The atmosphere in the car relaxed a little. I made a call to tell Alison what had happened and she sounded almost comically distressed. “Is this guy some kind of ghost? How could he just appear like that?”
“He’s not a ninja, he hid behind construction equipment,” I said, rolling my eyes at Julie, who laughed, prompting Alison to say over the car speakerphone, “Why are you laughing?” Which only made us both laugh.
“Sorry, we’re just punchy,” Julie said.
“There’s nothing funny about this,” Alison said, sounding annoyed before dropping back into panic. “Oh God, the police have pulled Heather’s phone calls, they’re watching her and us, and now this crazy guy is just out there, a ticking time bomb who can go to the police at any moment.” Her voice climbed higher as she wailed, “What are we going to do?”
“Ask for adjoining cells?” I said before bursting out laughing along with Julie, who just lost it, both of us laughing so hard that I had to pull the car off to the side of the road.
“I guess you should consider a career in stand-up,” Alison said, tartly. “I’ve got a project due—got to go.”
“She actually hung up on me.” I held the phone out to show Julie.
“Oh dear, you have to call her back,” she said, still giggling and swiping at her eyes.
“Not until we’ve stopped laughing.”
“Maybe I should call Heather.” She started to select her number, but I stopped her.
“No, don’t. None of us should call her right now, not so soon after that detective visited Alison.”
That sobered her up. “Do you think they’re going to want to talk to us, too?”
“Maybe? Heather only called Alison that night—that’s why they wanted to talk to her, but who knows what else they’ve found out.”
“There’s no proof of anything, aside from the photos,” she said. “If this guy keeps his end of the deal we’ll be okay.”
“There’s no reason to trust him, especially after today.”
“We have no choice—there’s no other option.”
The atmosphere had changed again; we were both somber, and we drove the rest of the way in silence, under a sky that was gray and heavy with clouds, seemingly as weighed down as we were.
chapter twenty-nine
ALISON
Any time the doorbell rang I tensed, convinced it was the police. Every day carried with it a dual threat: The police would find out the truth and come to arrest us, or the blackmailer would go to the police with the photos and then they’d arrest us.
There’d been no more encounters after Detective Kasper questioned me, no sign that they had any interest in Julie or Sarah. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched, that everything each of us did was under surveillance.
Invariably, that tension we all were feeling transferred to our families. No matter that I did my best to hide the stress—I wasn’t good at it and my children seemed to catch my mood, especially Lucy, who became irritable and anxious.
“Is this some sort of dev
elopmental stage?” Michael asked one night after he’d packed a crying Lucy off to her room to think about why she couldn’t just yell at her brother no matter how annoying she found him. “Or should I find a priest willing to do exorcisms?”
“She’s okay, it’s just sibling rivalry.”
He snorted. “It’s more than that and you know it.”
We were cleaning the kitchen together post-dinner and I turned from loading the dishwasher to look at him. “What does that mean?”
“That this isn’t about her and Matthew—she’s picking up on the overall mood in this house.” He scraped some plates into the trash and handed them to me.
“And what would mood would that be?” I said, grabbing them from him and loading them noisily into the dishwasher, hoping my obvious annoyance would make him drop the subject.
“Tense. Irritable.”
“You mean my mood, right? Isn’t that what you’re trying to say?” I straightened up and looked at him, everything in my face and tone daring him to agree. Emotionally intelligent spouses know how to read the signs, and Michael was usually smart enough to back away from this kind of interaction with me. I’ve often thought successful marriages are as much about couples knowing how to create space for each other’s moods as they are about togetherness and communication.
He paused, but when he spoke again, I could hear his determination to have this conversation. “Yes—it’s your mood affecting Lucy.”
“Sure, blame the mother.” I turned back to the dishwasher, pleased with my deflection.
“C’mon, Ali, you know I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“You’re stressed and it’s affecting the kids. It’s affecting all of us.”
“You’re working long hours, too, Michael—I’m not the only one who’s got stress.”
“For God’s sake, Ali, you can’t even load the dishwasher without slamming things.”
He was right, but that only fueled my irritation. I hurled a handful of cutlery into the sink, the sharp clatter echoing throughout the house.
“Mommy, what happened? Are you okay?” Matthew came around the corner, eyes wide.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” I said, forcing a smile. “I just dropped some silverware.”
“You’re yelling? Why are you and Daddy yelling?”
“It’s okay, Matt,” Michael said. “Your mom and I weren’t yelling, not really. We’re just talking a bit loud. You know how you talk like that with Lucy sometimes?”
“Like the time she took my soccer ball when I said no you can’t borrow it?” he said, looking from me to Michael and back again.
“Something like that,” Michael said. “It’s okay, bud. Sometimes Mom and I squabble about things just like you and Lucy squabble, but it’s okay.”
“Mrs. Arnold says people shouldn’t throw hard things when they’re angry,” Matthew said. “Mrs. Arnold says people should only throw soft things, like pillows.”
“Mrs. Arnold is a wise woman,” I said, a genuine smile slipping out. “Why don’t you go up and start getting ready for bed—Dad and I’ll be up in a bit to read you a story.”
Michael put an arm around Matthew and walked him down the hall to the stairs, while I grabbed a sponge and took out my leftover aggression on the countertops. He came back into the kitchen, but I kept swiping at the stone, not making eye contact.
“I’m worried about you,” he said. “You’re short-tempered with me and the kids, and you’re so tense that you jump at the slightest sound.”
“I’m just tired.”
“You’ve been crying out in your sleep, Ali.” That surprised me; it was something that I used to do a lifetime ago. I knew I’d been sleeping fitfully, but not to this extent. Seeing the look on my face, Michael reached out to comfort me and I flinched from his touch. An old reflex; it startled us both.
Michael sighed. “Things have been this way since you got that letter.”
My hands froze on the counter, a pool of soapy water gathering around the sponge. “What letter?”
“I saw it.”
“You did?” My thoughts raced, while everything else seemed to slow. Where had he found it? I’d had it in my coat pocket, before sticking it in a drawer in my desk. He never went in my desk—I should have hidden it better. I looked up from my hands, pressed so hard against the counter that they were a blotchy red and white. “Where? I mean, how did you find it—”
“Sean told me about it.”
“Sean?” I frowned, confused.
Michael must have thought I was angry because he said, “Don’t blame him, I asked.”
And then all at once I realized that he wasn’t talking about the blackmail letter at all, but about the letter I’d received back in the fall, the one Sean wanted to discuss, the one I wanted so much to forget. Relief swept through me—he didn’t know about the blackmail letter! I started to laugh, totally inappropriate and hysterical giggling that I couldn’t contain.
He must have thought this was the beginning of a nervous collapse, because he looked dismayed, coming to rescue me with his arms outstretched. “It’s okay,” he said, pulling me into an embrace. “It’s going to be okay.”
Who was he trying to convince? I tried to explain that I was fine, but when I started to speak, the words turned into a sob and suddenly I was clutching him hard and crying.
* * *
At Michael’s insistence, I called our GP and got a prescription for a sleep aid. The little white pills helped me fall asleep and sleep more deeply, but I felt sluggish and drowsy in the morning and I was plagued by nightmares in which the past and present merged.
I am Lucy’s age and hiding in a small dark room, a sharp blade of light under a door, pounding footfalls coming closer and closer. “Come out of there!” Scrambling back, trying to find another way out, but slamming against something hard and slick. I try to climb over it, my hands slipping against plastic, pulling sheeting off a green car. Viktor sitting up, bloody and grinning. “You can’t hide from me!”
I woke up from my own screaming, my mouth wide open and a puddle of drool on the pillow, covers twisted like a snake around me. The space next to me was empty, and hard daylight streamed through a gap in the curtains.
“You were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to wake you,” Michael said when I found him downstairs packing the kids’ lunches. “You look like you’re still tired—I can take them to school if you want to keep sleeping.”
“No,” I said at once, a bark that made little worry lines appear on Michael’s face. Lucy and Matthew were eating breakfast, Cheerios scattered across the kitchen table, a milk carton sitting out and open. A cartoon played loudly on the TV, but the kids were watching us. Matthew tapped his spoon nervously while he looked from me to his father, while Lucy shoveled spoonfuls of cereal in her mouth with grim determination.
“No,” I repeated in a quieter voice. “I’ve got it. You go ahead.”
“You sure?” He gave me a penetrating look, but he was already uncuffing the sleeves of his dress shirt and fastening the buttons. I nodded, stretching my lips into a smile in accordance with the positive-thinking tapes a therapist had once recommended: “Fake it till you make it!”
Michael had recommended that I go back to therapy. “If you won’t talk to me, you’ve got to talk to someone.”
“I talk to my friends,” I’d protested, regretting it when I saw the hurt look on his face. He wanted to be the one I turned to, he shared the good man’s fantasy of being his family’s savior and protector.
“You’ve told them about what happened?” he’d asked, sounding both surprised and a little sulky at the idea that I’d share my past with anyone else but him.
“Some of it.” Which meant next to none of it.
“They’re not professionals,” he’d argued. “You need to talk to someone you can tell everything to.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t have time right now—I’m too behind with wo
rk.”
These half-truths we tell were something I might have talked about once with my friends. At times I passed by Crazy Mocha and felt a wave of longing for the mornings we’d sat there gossiping about other people’s lives, before our own became so complicated.
“Have you had any more visitors?” Julie asked every day at the bus stop, the only place where we could talk for a few minutes without concern that it would attract attention. Her way of referring to the police, something that she’d been asking since the detective questioned me. She and Sarah had been waiting for their visit ever since, but it hadn’t happened. At least not yet. I knew it wasn’t over and the police hadn’t moved on. The sound of the doorbell, or even just the noise of a car passing on my street, would send me flying to the window, convinced I’d see a squad car outside, roof lights spinning.
Of course, when I finally did see the police again, I wasn’t expecting it at all.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, almost a month after the funeral, a sunny day after a streak of gray ones. I’d driven up to Sewickley Heights because Heather had sent me a text earlier in the afternoon asking if I’d mind picking up Daniel after school. She was running late at the doctor and wouldn’t be home in time to meet his bus.
I was happy to do it. I hadn’t seen her in well over a week and was eager to see how she was doing. The after-school pickup was fine; she’d called the school and they released Daniel to me without any hassle, my kids running to me while Daniel followed slowly behind them.
“Benjamin Bunny is having a baby!” Matthew announced excitedly as the kids clambered into the backseat of my Subaru.
“Oh, so Benjamin isn’t a boy after all?” I asked with a laugh, helping him fasten the straps in his car seat. “What did your teacher say about that?”
“Mrs. Arnold said, ‘Wow, now that’s a surprise!’” Matthew said, doing a pretty credible imitation of her deep voice.
“You have to give him a new name,” Lucy told him.
“I like Benjamin.”
“Benjamin is a boy’s name and boys don’t have babies.”
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