All the Way Home

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  There’s this little cafe on Front Street where that Chinese restaurant used to be.

  “That’s it!” Rory says aloud, stopping in midscrubbing motion.

  That’s what’s bothering her about Barrett Maitland.

  How would he know that the cafe used to be the Rainbow Palace? Molly doesn’t even remember that. The restaurant has been closed down for years.

  So? Maybe he’s been in Lake Charlotte before. He didn’t come right out and say he’s new here, did he?

  No, but he definitely gave that impression . . . didn’t he?

  Confused, Rory analyzes her conversation with Barrett Maitland. Why wouldn’t he have mentioned coming to Lake Charlotte in the past?

  Oh, come on. Why would he?

  Part of her wants to think that she’s being way too suspicious of the guy. But it’s not the common-­sense-­driven part of her.

  No, it’s the lust-­driven, bored, lonely part, the part that wants him to be just a nice, regular guy who is who he says he is.

  Not that that’s so great, either.

  I mean, a true-­crime writer doing a book about the four girls who vanished from Lake Charlotte?

  Hardly Mr. Perfect for you, Rory.

  But at least it’s a better alternative to . . .

  Something else. Something too scary to even consider.

  Still, the common-­sense-­driven part of Rory is leaning toward thinking Barrett Maitland isn’t who he claims to be.

  Because he was obviously in Lake Charlotte years ago. How else would he know that the little cafe used to be the Rainbow Palace?

  Well, maybe someone told him. Maybe Mrs. Shilling mentioned it. After all, she’s the type of person who goes on and on about everything.

  That must be it, Rory concludes.

  Then she argues with herself, But that’s a stretch. It was just the way he said it—­as if he knew. As if he remembered the Chinese restaurant.

  Okay, this has got to stop.

  She’s making herself crazy, overanalyzing some inane comment, being ridiculously suspicious of the man.

  Besides, what’s to stop her from coming right out and asking him when she sees him Saturday night? She can say, “Barrett, have you ever been in Lake Charlotte before?”

  That’s what I’ll do. I’ll ask him. And I’ll take it from there.

  The mosquitoes are biting like crazy tonight, buzzing around the warm, humid air trapped in the overgrown mock-­orange hedges beneath the kitchen window at 52 Hayes Street.

  A few more minutes, and then I’ll have to get out of here before I’m eaten alive.

  But it’s so tempting to just stay, despite the mosquitoes, and watch Rory. To smile as she grunts in frustration, trying to scrub the white splotch on the side of the refrigerator.

  She’s not doing a very good job. She keeps stopping, staring off into space, as though something’s bothering her, distracting her.

  Once, she said something aloud, but it was hard to hear what it was, even with the screen conveniently open.

  You’d think she’d lower the blinds.

  You’d think she’d be worried that someone might be hiding, watching her.

  You’d think she’d be more cautious . . .

  Especially after what happened to her own sister.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Maybe Rory feels safe, now.

  Foolish Rory . . .

  She’s always been a little reckless.

  A mosquito buzzes loudly, seeking a patch of exposed flesh that will make a tender landing site.

  Careful not to rustle the bushes when you move your hand.

  Okay, good, now wait until it lands on your arm.

  Slap!

  There. The mosquito has been satisfyingly annihilated, leaving behind a barely perceptible smear of blood.

  But it’s there.

  Blood.

  The slightest sight of it, the faintest smell of it, brings back memories that won’t stay buried forever. Memories of what happened here in Lake Charlotte ten years ago.

  No! No! Please, I don’t want to think about that again—­

  But it’s too late.

  The gory images come rushing back, along with the ghastly stench of rotting flesh and the hideous screams of tortured girls who should have known better.

  They just should have known better.

  And now, with the memories, come a flash of rage.

  It was their fault. All of them. Not mine.

  They ruined everything.

  I only did what I had to do.

  And I’ll do it again if I have to.

  In the kitchen, Rory suddenly turns on the faucet. The rush of water spills out the open window as she starts scrubbing her hands, standing at the sink, scrubbing, scrubbing . . .

  Yes, keep at it, Rory. Dried paint isn’t easy to get off your hands.

  Neither is dried blood.

  And believe me, Rory—­I know.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Please come with me, Rebecca. I mean, I’m totally begging you.”

  “I told you, I can’t, Molly.” Rebecca folds her arms across her chest and tries not to meet her best friend’s gaze. But Molly’s in her face, standing less than a foot away on the other side of the Wasners’ screen door.

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because . . . I’m busy,” Rebecca lies. “I have to help my mother with some things around the house.”

  “Your mother isn’t even home. She goes to Bingo at Holy Father every Friday night and you know it, Rebecca.”

  “Well, I told her I’d do some stuff while she’s gone.”

  “Come on, Rebecca,” Molly pleads, reaching out to open the screen door. She tugs on it. “Why’s the door locked?”

  Because I’m in the house alone and I’m afraid, as usual.

  Aloud, Rebecca says, “I don’t know. I guess I must have locked it without thinking.” She slides the hook out of its loop and steps back as Molly pushes the door open and crosses the threshold.

  “You’ve got to come with me, Rebecca,” she says, putting a hand on Rebecca’s forearm. “I really need you with me.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re going to that party to see Ryan, not to hang around with me.”

  “But I told you, I need someone to be with while I scope out the Ryan situation,” Molly says patiently. “I mean, I can’t just show up alone like some friendless geek. What’s Ryan going to think?”

  Rebecca sighs. “Why do you care so much what he thinks, Molly? You barely know him.”

  “I’m in love with him, Rebecca. Totally in love.”

  Rebecca stares at Molly, feeling like her best friend has become a stranger. She has the familiar blue eyes and curly dark hair, but she’s no longer the comfortable, reliable person Rebecca has known her whole life.

  Rebecca hears a soft meow and looks down to see Sebastian circling her feet. He brushes cozily against her bare ankle, and she bends to scoop him into her arms, resting her cheek against his soft, furry head. He purrs and nuzzles her with his wet, velvet nose.

  Feeling fortified, somehow, by her kitten’s affection, Rebecca says firmly, “I’m not going to that party, Molly, and you can’t change my mind about it. My parents would kill me—­”

  “I told you to say you’re sleeping at my house—­”

  “And besides that, I don’t want to stand around alone like some dork while you chase after Ryan.”

  “I won’t leave you alone. I swear.”

  “Oh, yeah? What if Ryan asks you to . . . I don’t know, go on some moonlit walk on the beach, just the two of you?”

  Molly’s face lights up. “Do you think he will?”

  “No,” Rebecca says flatly, hating herself for feeling a prickle of satisfaction when Molly
’s hopeful expression instantly evaporates. She holds tight to Sebastian, who’s started squirming in her arms, and goes on, “But that’s not the point. The point is, you only want me to go because you want to use me. You don’t want to be with me.”

  “Well, why would I?” Molly asks, her blue eyes flashing with sudden anger. “You’re about as much fun to be with as Sister Theodosia lately.”

  Rebecca scowls at the comparison to the sour-­tempered nun who occasionally visits Molly’s mother.

  “You don’t know how to have fun anymore, Rebecca,” Molly goes on. “All you want to do is go to the library and play with your stupid cats.”

  As if on cue, Sebastian writhes his way out of Rebecca’s grasp and leaps to the floor, landing gracefully on his feet. He meows loudly, looking meaningfully at the door.

  “No, you can’t go out,” Rebecca tells him absently, and tries to think of something to say to Molly.

  This is awful. They’ve had maybe three fights in the whole history of their friendship, and none were as serious as this. This time, Rebecca’s feeling as though they’re about to turn an important corner.

  She knows that if she gives in and goes to the party with Molly, their friendship will be saved.

  If she doesn’t, it might not be.

  “My cats aren’t stupid,” she says lamely, still smarting from Molly’s comment.

  “Yes, they are. And they smell, too.”

  “They do not! Cats are the cleanest animals around.”

  “No they aren’t. Pee-­eeuuh.” Molly looks down at Sebastian and wrinkles her nose.

  That does it.

  “Get out of here,” Rebecca says, hands on her hips. “Just go to your stupid party and stop bugging me.”

  “Gladly. It wouldn’t be any fun with you around whining, anyway.”

  Molly tosses her dark curls, shoves open the door and stomps out onto the porch.

  Naturally, Sebastian seizes the opportunity to dart out of the house.

  “No . . . come back here!” Rebecca calls in frustration.

  Molly pauses and turns around.

  Rebecca sees a glimmer of hope in her eyes—­along with a smug expression that says, I knew you’d change your mind.

  Rebecca’s temper ignites once again.

  “Not you,” she says coldly to Molly. “I was talking to the cat.”

  She watches Molly march down the steps and along the walk, turning along the street toward home without a backward glance.

  Sebastian, meanwhile, has disappeared into the bushes.

  “Sebastian!” Rebecca calls, irritated. “Get back here, kitty. Come on, it’s almost dark out.”

  Of course, the kitten doesn’t heed her warning. Why should Sebastian care if it’s almost dark?

  Rebecca’s the one who minds that. She’s the one who doesn’t want to be alone in the house at night. Somehow, things seem a little less scary with the kitten scampering around.

  After a few moments of waiting on the porch, she gives up on Sebastian and returns to the living room just as the mantel clock finishes striking the hour. The television set is on. When Molly showed up at the door, Rebecca had been watching the tail end of that Parent Trap remake on cable. Now it’s over, and the opening credits for some other movie are on the screen.

  She watches for a minute, before she realizes it’s a sequel to that horror movie, Scream. She quickly moves toward the set to turn it off. Molly made her watch Scream last year when she was sleeping over one night, and Rebecca had had nightmares about a stalking serial killer for months afterward.

  Now, she stands in the suddenly silent living room, aware of the long shadows cast by the twilight falling outside. The only sound is the clock’s steady ticking on the mantel and the faint breathing of Ralphi, who is asleep on one end of the sofa.

  Relax, Rebecca tells herself. Dad and Casey will be home any minute.

  But she knows that isn’t necessarily true. Her brother had had a seven-­thirty Little League game that won’t be over yet, and, afterward, her father, who coaches the team, often takes everyone out to Talucci’s for pizza.

  Maybe I should have gone with Molly, Rebecca tells herself, walking across the living room and stopping in front of the lace-­curtained bay window that overlooks the side yard and the Randalls’ house.

  No, she shouldn’t have gone to the party. She can’t let Molly talk her into doing something she isn’t comfortable doing.

  But now Molly’s mad at you, Rebecca thinks. You might have lost your best friend.

  She stares morosely into the shadowy yard, noticing that light spills reassuringly from most of the windows of the house next door.

  The Randalls are obviously home. If Rebecca needs anything, she can just run over to get Michelle.

  That scenario is so ridiculous that she frowns. What would possibly send her running toward the creepy house next door? If it weren’t for that place looming ominously nearby her whole life, she probably wouldn’t be such a nervous wreck all the time.

  Has it always been this bad? Or is it just lately that she seems to have gotten more apprehensive?

  Hard to tell.

  With a sigh, Rebecca turns away from the window, grabs her library book about Laura Ingalls Wilder from the end table, and sits down next to the slumbering Ralphi.

  “Lou? Is that you?” Michelle calls, looking up from her copy of Child magazine, her heart lurching into a race as a footstep creaks in the hall outside the living room.

  “Who else would it be?”

  Michelle sighs with relief as her husband appears in the doorway. She’s been so jumpy all day for some reason. Now, when she should be relaxing, with Ozzie safely tucked into bed and the house silent and empty, she has found herself poised, listening, as though waiting for something to happen. For something to strike.

  “What are you reading?” Lou asks, glancing at the magazine.

  “An article about toilet training,” Michelle replies.

  “What does it say?”

  Actually, she has no idea. She’s read the opening paragraph over and over again ever since she sat down almost a half hour ago.

  “Nothing I didn’t already know,” she tells Lou briefly. “How was your day?”

  “Long. Exhausting.” His suit coat is slung over one arm, his navy-­and-­red striped tie loosened at the neck of his rumpled dress shirt. He looks weary, but handsome as always.

  There are times when Michelle takes his looks for granted, other times when she glances up at her husband and finds herself captured not by his gorgeous face, but by the fact that he chose her.

  Not that she’s so horrible-­looking, when she isn’t bloated with nearly nine months worth of baby. Back when she and Lou were dating, or newly married, she had always been casual about her looks. She was naturally slender, with long, naturally wavy brown hair and pretty features that didn’t demand much makeup.

  But once she’d had Ozzie, she’d been conscious of the fact that her figure was padded in places that had always been effortlessly lean, and there were circles under her eyes that didn’t seem to fade, even on the few nights when she got a full eight hours’ sleep.

  And now, pregnant again, and more exhausted than ever, and feeling frumpy in her maternity wardrobe, she’s acutely aware that she and her husband appear woefully mismatched. Lou might be tired and rumpled, but there’s still something sharp and professional and put-­together about him. There always has been.

  Meanwhile, she’s sitting here with her painfully swollen ankles propped on a footstool, wearing this huge pink nightshirt with a dumb floppy bow at the neck in that cutesy maternity style.

  “Is Ozzie asleep?” Lou asks, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair and jerking at the knot on his tie, pulling it off.

  “Maybe not asleep—­he wasn’t the last time I checked—­but
he’s in bed.” She glances at the baby monitor on the table beside her. “And if he’s not sleeping, at least he’s been quiet. Thank God.”

  “Was he a handful again today?”

  “Of course. Knocked over a huge display of cereal at Wegman’s, and he must have reached out of his seat and tossed all kinds of things into the cart when I wasn’t looking. I didn’t realize it until I got to the checkout, and then it was too late to put everything back. So I ended up buying stuff we’ll never eat.”

  “Like what?”

  “Those fake bacon bits. Not one, but three cans of cream of potato soup. And corn nuts.”

  “Corn nuts? I happen to like corn nuts.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. My mother used to buy them for me when we took long car trips.”

  “Iris bought you corn nuts?”

  Lou smiles. “My mother wasn’t always a prudish snob, Michelle.”

  “Iris and corn nuts, huh? Why do I find that hard to believe?”

  “She was once as human as you and me. Husband number three corrupted her.”

  “Good old Murray, huh?” Michelle barely knew him. He had died of a sudden heart attack shortly after she and Lou began dating, the summer she graduated from high school. She remembered wondering, at the time, why Lou seemed so detached from his stepfather’s death. Only when she knew him better did she realize Lou had never let himself get attached to Murray. He’d made that mistake with his mother’s second husband, Frank, who had been the only father figure Lou had ever known, since his own dad walked out on Iris before he was born. He had been devastated, at ten, when his mother and Frank abruptly divorced.

  And when Murray came along, Lou didn’t bother to bond with him. It was his way of shrewdly protecting himself from getting hurt again.

  As it turned out, he’d been wise to do so, given Murray’s untimely death. The man had been wealthier than anyone realized—­and not just from his thriving dental practice. He turned out to have been a successful high roller—­which explained all those weekends in Atlantic City and vacations in Vegas—­and, ultimately, the widowed Iris had wound up living the high life.