by D. M. Pulley
Hunter shrugged and checked his phone. Roger hadn’t texted back. Hunter didn’t say so, but he was relieved. “I doubt he knows anything.”
He didn’t mention the article he’d found about the dead boy or his worst fears about Ava.
“I still say you get a shovel, man.”
“Shut up.”
“Fine. Have it your way. But what are you going to do about the girl?”
“I’m not sure.” Hunter turned to his closed door. The sound of his parents arguing crept in through the seams, swelling louder and louder, ready to burst.
“What aren’t you telling me, Myron?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you off your meds again?”
His eyes drifted to the photograph of him and his sister sitting next to his bed. Allison, he thought. I really wish you were here.
To Caleb, he said, “I have to get out of here.”
55
“Hello there! Come on in. Welcome to Rawlingswood!” Myron held the front door open with a flourish for their guests. “So glad you could come.”
“Rawlingswood?” the man chuckled.
“Check the door knocker, my friend,” Myron said with a snarky grin. The screaming argument he’d had with his wife that morning only showed in the red tinge around his eyes. He’d stormed out of the house, happy for an excuse to leave and go find what he needed elsewhere. “This is a bona fide estate.”
“Well, shoot. If I had known, I would’ve worn my tux.”
“Oh, shut up, Harold.” Harold’s wife waved a dismissive hand at him and strolled into the foyer with a smirk on her face. “Myron, thank you so much for inviting us. Where’s your better half?”
“She’ll be down in a sec. You know how you ladies can be . . . Mark, nice to see you! Thanks for coming.” Myron gave the other gentleman a handshake and nodded at his wife. “Emily, good of you to drag the old man out. Can I get anyone a drink?”
“Chardonnay?” Harold’s wife did a slow turn in the foyer, calculating the relative cost of every fixture. “I’m dying for a tour of this house. Myron, it’s stunning!”
“Why don’t you two run up and find Margot? I’ll grab the drinks.” He waved the women up the grand stairway and led the men into the kitchen, where he’d assembled a top-shelf selection on one of the marble islands.
The ladies twittered up the stairwell, commenting on the chandelier, the woodwork, the paint color. “I’m so glad that they stayed true to the original architecture.”
“I love that they left the wood trim unpainted.”
Margot heard them coming and hastily dabbed at her eyes, trying to erase all traces of her hellacious fight with Myron. What do you mean, you have to go back to Boston next week? You’re just going to leave us here in this place? What about Hunter? . . . I don’t care what the lawyer said. You told me the lawsuit was all but settled. Are you hiding something from me? . . . Why are you acting so nuts?
She didn’t mention finding his leather case in the bathroom the day before. She didn’t mention the needle or the powder or the confidential files she’d found in his closet. Saying the words would make them real. Maybe I overreacted. There must be a reasonable explanation for all of it, she told herself, checking her makeup. There just had to be.
Margot greeted her guests in the hall with a practiced grin. “Hey, ladies! Thanks so much for coming.”
Gales of forced laughter and swooning followed as she gave her new friends a tour of the second floor. The master suite brought high-pitched approvals. “Gorgeous! I love the marble!”
“You must’ve spent a fortune!”
The other rooms were dispatched more quickly. Margot had made a point to check them all that morning in the light of day. She paused at the door to the guest room over the garage, eyeing the rumpled duvet. Hunter? That girlfriend of his? she wondered as she smoothed the bedding back to perfection. She didn’t feel the weight of a girl standing behind the plumbing access door as she guided her ladies through the suite and adjacent laundry room.
Hunter’s room was avoided altogether. “You know how teenagers can be about their privacy,” she chortled with a wave of her hand.
“What did you do with the third floor?” Harold’s wife asked. “We turned ours into a media room and just love it!”
“I wish,” Margot mused. “We left it untouched for now. With just the three of us here, we decided to spend the money in the kitchen. Emily, I’m dying to hear your thoughts on the dining room. We have so many blank walls . . .”
She led her guests down the servants’ staircase to where Myron was waiting with drinks. None of them noticed the footsteps in the back hallway over the chatter in the kitchen.
“Will Hunter be joining us for dinner?” Emily asked a half hour later as they settled into their places at the table.
“Oh, I think he’s still out with friends,” Margot said with a knowing wink even though she had no idea where her son had gone. He’d slipped out during her fight with Myron. She held up a bottle, eager to change the subject. “Who needs more wine?”
Conversations separated themselves by gender as they ate. The women discussed art, decorating, the coming school year, and the struggle to find proper extracurriculars to pad college applications. The men kept their conversation to golf, boating, and work. It was the talk of the hospital that sent the evening reeling in the wrong direction.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How is that legal matter progressing back in Boston?” Harold asked.
Margot’s ears perked up at this.
Myron took another drink of wine, hoping no one noticed the slight tremor in his hand. He’d managed to score a fix that afternoon somewhere outside the house, but it wasn’t quite enough. “It’s coming along. You know these things can drag out. It can take years.”
“I hear you. Apparently, the board has received a few phone calls from Boston. You may want to follow up.”
This revelation tightened Myron’s jaw, but he managed to lift an eyebrow sardonically. “Really?”
“Just thought you should know.”
“Well, I guess some lawyer is really trying to earn his fee. Vultures.” He forced a laugh, but it rang false. The other two men nodded for his benefit, and Myron downed his glass of wine. “Shall I open another? You won’t believe this rosé we found the other day.”
Myron pushed away from the table and tried to look casual strolling into the kitchen. Alone, he ran a shaking hand through his hair before taking stock of the wine fridge.
“Fucking Margot,” he muttered to himself. He’d never wanted any of it. The dinner party. The guests. The questions. He just needed some space to figure things out, to breathe, but no one ever considered what he needed. Certainly not his wife. He threw the wine key into the sink. “I could kill her.”
Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he turned to see a blonde girl standing at the foot of the back stairs. He nearly dropped the bottle in his hand. It was her.
“Hi, Dr. Spielman,” she said.
“Uh. Hello?” Myron stared at her a beat. She was wearing one of Hunter’s T-shirts.
“I’m Hunter’s friend. Ava. He said he’d meet me here.” She gave him a little wave, harmless, but something was off about her smile. It didn’t match the dark look in her eyes.
Myron fumbled with the wine cork. “Nice to meet you, Ava. Hunter’s not here right now.”
“I know. He said he’d be back soon. Um. Are you okay?”
“Excuse me?” His face had gone red with the exertion of being polite to this strange creature that he was certain he’d seen before skulking around his house. He glanced over at the block of knives on the counter as he ripped the cork from the bottle with a faint pop.
“Are you alright? You seem . . . I don’t know.” She stared at him with a deadened gaze that did not belong to a teenage girl. Her eyes had seen too much.
“I’m sorry, but I think you’d better leave, Ava. We have guests.” Myron barely kept
the bite out of his voice. “I’ll have Hunter call you when he gets back.”
Ava gave him a small nod and one more probing look before slipping out of the kitchen to the mudroom and then the backyard.
He was heading back to the dining room with the open bottle of wine when Hunter came in through the side door. Myron, lost in his own agitation, snapped at him. “Nice of you to show up. Your friend Ava was just here.”
“What?” Hunter stopped in his tracks.
“Ava. She was here. And by the way, I’m not so comfortable with you sneaking your girlfriend into the house or letting her hang out here when you’re not around. We’re going to talk about that later. Listen, your mom invited over some friends, so you are going to be on your best behavior. Understood?” He motioned to the dining room, where the chatter had lightened to a dinner party shade. “If you’re hungry, grab a plate.”
“Sure, Dad.” But Hunter wasn’t interested in food. He bolted up the back stairs to his room.
His father’s gaze trailed after him a moment, helplessly disconnected. What is up with that kid? Myron straightened himself and sauntered back into the dining room. “Wait until you try this wine. It will change your life.”
Margot had been studying her plate for the last several minutes, replaying Harold’s comments about Boston.
After the table had complimented the new wine, Emily started a new topic. “So tell us more about the house. It’s gorgeous! Was it like this when you bought it?”
“God, no. It was a mess!” Margot had downed several glasses of wine, and it showed. “The copper was stripped. The radiators were missing. The place had been utterly vandalized.”
“Wow. That must’ve been a bit unsettling.”
“Ha. Yeah. And it just keeps getting better. Right, hon?”
Myron dropped his fork and glared at her.
“What do you mean?” Emily and the others were staring now.
“It’s a murder house. The words were spray-painted on that wall over there. Murder House! But we didn’t mind that much. Did we, Myron?” Margot fixed him with a vicious smile that said, I will never forgive you. “The price was just too darn good to pass up.”
A murmur rippled around the table.
“What do you mean, it’s a murder house?” Harold asked.
“There was a murder here like a hundred years ago. For some reason, my lovely wife thinks that means the house is cursed.” He tipped his glass at her in a mock toast. Fuck you, babe.
“Really? A murder? Here?” Emily gaped at them both. “That’s unbelievable.”
“Why? Is Shaker Heights too fancy for murder?” Margot laughed, sounding more than a little tipsy. “A six-year-old boy was killed in the attic. How fancy is that?”
“Margot,” Myron warned. “You’re being rude and ridiculous.”
“Why don’t we change the subject,” Harold suggested uncomfortably. “Do you two have big plans this winter? You wouldn’t think it, but the skiing just south of here is really something.”
Margot talked right past Harold. “I’m being ridiculous? How am I being ridiculous?”
Upstairs, Hunter sat at his computer and booted up the screen. His face was a worried frown as he pulled several books from his backpack, including a 2015 Woodbury Elementary School yearbook stamped Property of Shaker Heights Public Library. He flipped it open to the back and a picture of a young kid. Toby Turner.
The sound of his mother’s voice from downstairs made him stop and listen.
“What’s ridiculous is you leaving your wife and son in this murder house alone to go back to Boston for a week! Why are you going back there, Myron? Harold, what are these phone calls to the board about, exactly?”
“Margot, I think you’ve had a little too much wine.” Myron shook his head in disgust at her, eager to deflect her questions. “I’m sorry, everyone. This move and the house renovations have been a bit of strain. Margot just hasn’t been herself lately.”
“Perhaps we should go,” Mark suggested, frowning at both of them.
“No. Stay.” Margot’s face burned red with rage and embarrassment. She straightened herself and drank some water. “Myron’s right. This move has been hard . . . It’s hard to be taken from all of your friends and neighbors when you’re not even told the truth about why you’re moving. But obviously, I’m being ridiculous.”
“No, I’m the ridiculous one.” Myron held up both his hands, seething at her. “I’m the one that can’t even send my wife flowers without her struggling to figure out which of the guys she’s fucking sent them.”
Her jaw dropped. The roses. She quickly shut it again. You son of a bitch.
“Other men, Myron?” she said coldly, narrowing her eyes. “You sound paranoid. Harold? Mark? You’re doctors, right? Isn’t paranoia a sign of drug addiction?”
Myron stiffened ever so slightly and then fixed her with a murderous glare. “You’re drunk, Margot.”
Harold spoke for all of them when he said, “I think we’d better get going. It was a lovely dinner, Margot. Perhaps we’ll catch up some more another time . . . Myron.”
Within two minutes, all four guests had left in an embarrassed shuffling of feet and placations.
Once the door shut, Margot turned on him. “I cannot believe you pulled this shit in front of them! You have to work with those men, for God’s sake!”
“Mark is a nurse anesthetist, and Harold doesn’t even work in my building! If you actually paid me one bit as much attention as you do your little internet fuck-boys, you would know that!”
“My what?” She gaped at him. “Whatever, Myron. I want you and your pills and your needles and whatever else you’re doing out of this house. Tonight!”
“This is my house. Why the hell should I leave?” he bellowed back. “I’m not the one running around screwing twenty-two-year-olds!”
She didn’t dare let her mask slip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, really? Well, let’s see.” Myron pulled out his phone and queued up a video stored there. The screen came to life with an image of Margot bent over in her yoga studio, slowly counting to ten, naked. “What do you call that, huh? That’s real educational, hon. I think I just saw your tonsils!”
“You’ve been spying on me?” she hissed, internally calculating how much he’d seen and how he’d tapped into her system. “What did you do? Set up your own little camera?”
He ignored her. “Exactly how many of your yoga fans are you sleeping with?”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Why? You worried your teenage son might find out you’re screwing his classmates?”
“Fuck you, Myron!” she seethed, storming into the den. With trembling hands, she poured brown liquor into a tumbler.
“That’s real nice, hon. Have another drink,” he taunted her from the doorway.
She downed the glass and took a breath before turning back to him. “Like you’re one to talk. How long, Myron? How long have you been using? Huh? Were you doing it back in Boston? Were you high when that poor girl died in the recovery room? I saw the files, Myron. Unwarranted surgery? Unethical medical practice? Did they suspend your license? Is that why we had to move all the way the fuck out to Ohio? Is that why you took a hospital administration job?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, but fear flashed in his eyes. “I followed hospital policy. Always, dammit!”
“Was it hospital policy to perform unnecessary surgery?”
“Whether to operate or not is a matter of fucking professional opinion!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I couldn’t take the risk of letting something suspicious go! Could I? I saw irregular tissue! What if the lesions were malignant? What if they metastasized? How could I take that risk that I might miss something? That some poor little girl might . . .” His voice caught in his throat.
Margot stared at him, stunned, watching tears leak from his eyes. “This is about Allison, isn’t it?”
He turn
ed away from her and struggled to put the tears back in his eyes and the words back in his mouth. What did I just say?
“Myron. What happened to Allison wasn’t your fault. Her cancer wasn’t your fault.” A wave of sadness threatened to knock her from her feet. She gripped the edge of the desk. “Jesus, how many little girls have you cut open trying to fix this?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous! A girl is dead, Myron! She’s dead because of you!” Her voice and hands were shaking. What if that girl is dead because of me? I didn’t see the signs. I didn’t make him get help.
Margot yanked open a drawer in the desk. She pulled out the leather zippered case she’d found in the bathroom. The gun lying beneath it hardly registered. “Is this me being ridiculous?”
She unzipped the case, shaking the needle, spoon, and powder onto the desk blotter. Seeing it all sent another shock through her system, one she couldn’t ignore. “I cannot believe you brought this filth into our house, Myron! What if Hunter found it?”
Myron’s eyes flashed from Margot to the drugs and back again, registering a diffuse terror at being discovered and then rage. I will not be berated by you. I will not. Not ever again. “What if Hunter found it? Ha! Where do you think I found this stuff in the first place?”
Margot just gaped at him. Hunter? Her missing pills, her missing nightgown, her shuffled closet all tumbled through her mind.
“I didn’t want to tell you.” The lie smoothed the fraying edges of Myron’s face, giving his rage direction. “I thought it would put you over the edge. You’ve barely been maintaining since we got here, and Lord knows the boy doesn’t need to live through another one of your fucking breakdowns, Margot. He’s got enough problems. But here we are, aren’t we?”
As he regained the upper hand, the divorce filing took shape in his fevered brain. History of mental instability. Alcoholism. Infidelity. He might even get custody. Margot seemed to realize it too.