Of course. I’m such an idiot. I run back upstairs to my bathroom and yank open the medicine cabinet. Thomas isn’t the only one with medication. I have my own, but since I rarely take any, I’d forgotten all about it. Two bottles, one with Xanax, the other with Ambien. They are out of place. I snatch up both bottles and hide them in a pair of boots in my closet.
Back downstairs. “How much did you take, Thomas?” My mouth is next to his ear, and I gently slap his face a few more times.
“Leave me alone,” he moans, then flips to face away from me.
“I need to know how many pills you took. Tell me.”
“Two…”
“Two what, Thomas? Two of which medication?”
His words are muffled into the couch cushion. “One of each.”
Okay, one Ambien and one Xanax. That’ll deliver a good knockout punch, but I don’t think it’s enough to be dangerous.
“What time, Thomas? When did you take them?”
No answer.
“Thomas, answer me!”
“I don’t fucking know. Earlier. Now leave me alone.”
His sharp reply tells me he’s going to be fine, but he might be sleeping for a while. He’s due soon for another yellow pill, but I have no idea what that could do combined with what else he took. Better to wait until tomorrow.
As I stand, I spy a small devil walking up my driveway.
“Thomas, I have to go out tonight. It’s important. Otherwise I’d stay here with you.”
“Okay, just go.” The devil knocks on my door, but I don’t answer.
“It’s Halloween. There are going to be trick-or-treaters, but I don’t have any candy. Just ignore them, okay?”
His only reply is a soft snore. He’s out again.
A second knocking at my door, but I don’t answer it.
I put on my coat and wool hat, then grab a bottle of wine from the kitchen. After a few seconds of thought, I decide to grab the folding wine opener and slide it into my coat pocket. With its coiled steel needle and inch-long foil cutter, it’s the closest thing to a knife I own.
I move about the house, turning off most of the lights. I usually leave them on, because I don’t like arriving to a dark house at night, but a dark house might let the trick-or-treaters know not to bother with this property.
I walk outside, then lock the door behind me. Richard is sitting on the nearby porch steps. He’s handing out candy to the devil and another kid dressed as something from Star Wars. He cranes his head around as he hears me approach from behind.
“I heard them down here. Wasn’t sure if you were handing out candy, so I came down.”
I flip my collar to the cold. “Thomas is inside, but he’s sleeping. I’m headed out. So feel free.”
The kids scamper back down the driveway as their parents wave a thank you to Richard.
“Your brother is here? How’s he doing?”
There are several easy, bullshit answers I could give to this, but I choose an honest one.
“He’s broken.”
Richard seems to accept this.
“And what about you, Alice? Are you broken, too?”
“I’m just trying to control the damage at this point.”
Just last night, I held a fire poker high in the air, ready to brain him with it. That feels so long ago.
“Let me know if I can help,” he says. “I can be good at damage control.”
I snap my head to him. “Why do you want to help me?” Then my hands burrow into my coat pockets, and my thumb runs up and down the cool metal of the wine opener. “I pulled you into something you never should have been a part of. I’m a mess. My life is falling apart around me. You should want nothing to do with me.”
“Yet here I am,” he says. “Telling you I want to help if I can. I never claimed to be logical. I’m just telling you how I feel.”
The clash between logic and emotion seems to define whatever kind of relationship this is. It’s that same clash confusing me about whether I should trust Richard. So far, I keep leaning toward trust, though my logic keeps poking at me, reminding me of what can happen when you trust too much. Or at all.
Still, he could help me. I revisit a thought I had earlier in the day.
“Okay, want to help me? Download an app called Find My Phone.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you if it gets to that point. Just install that app on your phone, okay?”
He shrugs. “Sure, okay, Alice. If that helps you.”
I pull my own phone from my purse and check the battery. Ninety-two percent. Good.
“You just going to sit out here in the cold and hand out candy?” I ask him.
“It’s not that cold. Figure I’d do it until I ran out. I don’t have that much.”
“Have fun.”
As I reach the sidewalk, Richard calls out.
“Happy Halloween, Alice.”
I raise a hand in acknowledgment but don’t call back. I feel him watch as I walk away, his gaze boring into me, until I deepen and darken, eventually becoming another indistinguishable piece of blackness in the night.
Forty-Five
Brenda lives south of Bridge Street, the less desirable part of Manchester. There’s no real line of demarcation, no obvious shift in the environment, no sudden appearance of graffiti-tagged buildings or vagrants wandering about. Yet there is a sense of fatigue south of Bridge Street. Houses are more tired and worn than their counterparts just a couple of blocks to the north. Yards less kempt. Sidewalks more cracked. It’s as if this section of the city simply cares a bit less.
It’s only a ten-minute walk for me, and the cold both chills and wakens me, giving me the energy I need. I pass packs of trick-or-treaters, some with their parents, others by themselves. Older kids buzz with excitement, the thrill of being out alone at night, approaching strangers’ doors with no real fear. The fun kind of scared.
On High Street, there is less activity. More darkness. The electrical line hanging over the sidewalk crackles and hums, and as I pass under it, I feel a soft heat rise on the three-inch scar above my clavicle. I check my phone and confirm the house in front of me is Brenda’s. I’ve never been here before.
A massive evergreen stands heavy and old in front of Brenda’s house, its thick, sagging branches nearly blocking the path to the door. Needles sweep my cheeks as I pass. Tiny, bony fingers. Three concrete steps up to the entrance, each one heaved in different directions, victims of expanding underground roots. When I get to the door, I see there are, in fact, two doors, and then realize the house is subdivided into apartments. I check the address once more and confirm Brenda’s is the one on the left. Her apartment has lights on. The apartment on the right is dark enough to almost fade into the night.
I ring the bell.
Deep breath. Count to four. Exhale.
Brenda answers a moment later, greeting me with a bowl of candy. She smiles and opens the door.
“I figured it was either you or my first customer of the night,” she says.
“You haven’t had a single one?”
“Not yet. I think that tree keeps everyone away. I need to have my landlord trim it back. Such a pain.”
She holds the door open, and as I pass, I notice her perfume, not strong but more present than I’ve ever noticed in the Rose. Lavender. A scent meant to relax and calm. I’ve tried lavender incense at night to help me sleep. It didn’t work.
I walk in a few feet, turn, then pull the wine bottle from my purse.
“Might as well drink since I’m not driving,” I say.
“You live close?”
“Close enough.”
She takes the bottle. “Thank you. I don’t know very much about wines, but it looks good.”
“It’s red, and it’ll get you buzzed. That’s about all I
know.”
I get Brenda’s top-shelf smile, which pulls me in like a tractor beam.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she takes an opener from a drawer. The opener I brought remains in my jacket pocket, and I slide my jacket off and hook it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. There are two place settings, and the aroma of Chinese takeout fills the air.
“I already ordered,” she says, pouring me a glass. “Hope that’s okay. Got a little bit of everything.”
“Of course,” I reply. I have zero appetite. I reach for my purse. “Here, let me give you some money for the food.”
Brenda instantly waves me off. “Please, you already pay me more than what my position deserves. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But truly, you deserve more. You’re basically running the Rose solo, Brenda. I’ve hardly been there the past two weeks.”
“You know I’m happy to help. Besides, ever since you fired Dan, it’s been a lot more peaceful.” She turns and hands me a glass of wine, and for the first time, I notice she has a little bit of makeup on. Not much, but since she never wears any, it’s noticeable. Brenda has the kind of simple, timeless beauty makeup rarely augments.
She raises her glass.
“Happy Halloween,” she says.
It’s the last thing I want to toast, but I clink her glass anyway, adding, “and to things taking a turn for the better.”
“Yes, absolutely.” She takes a sip. “Things have been pretty rough, haven’t they?”
The wine is heavy and full, warming my chest after I swallow. I have to remind myself to take it easy.
“Yes, pretty rough.”
“Sorry,” Brenda says. “I don’t mean to pry. We really don’t need to talk about any of that.” A sip, a doe-eyed glance. “If you don’t want to.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, then walk into her living room—just a few steps away—and take a seat on a tired leather couch. “It’s good for me to talk about it, because I almost never do.”
This elicits another smile from Brenda, but not of her usual variety. This seems more a knowing smile, the kind used by a person who just got what they wanted. She walks over and sits on the couch directly next to me, leaving a whole cushion of space free on the other side of her. She lightly touches my knee with her fingertips.
“I’m glad you said that,” she says. “Because ever since you told me about that website, I’ve had a million questions for you.”
Good, I think. This is why I’m here.
“I almost don’t know where to begin,” she adds.
I lean back into the cushion. “Take a stab.”
Forty-Six
The minutes quickly melt into an hour, which itself turns into two. At some point, we moved to the table, and Brenda brought forth an array of takeout boxes she’d been keeping warm in the oven, and I manage to eat enough food to soak up some of the wine.
There have been a grand total of three groups of trick-or-treaters, to whom Brenda was very generous with fistfuls of candy. She dispatched them quickly, returning to me with more questions. I’ve been very open with her, even more than I was with Maggie. I didn’t say anything to her about Starks, but I did tell her about Jimmy, mostly because I wanted to see how she reacted.
She acted surprised. Wide-eyed and wanting to know everything Jimmy said to me.
My glass has been empty for some time, as is hers, as is the bottle. She must have noticed me looking at my glass, because she says, “I don’t have another bottle, but I do have some bourbon. A friend gave me a bottle of small batch.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She stands from the couch directly in front of me.
“You sure? I think I’m going to have some. Come on. Join me.”
I’m not even a little buzzed, so I think I can afford a bit more. I sense if I stop drinking, the night here will end, and I’m not ready for that. I have work to do.
“Okay, just a little.”
“Good.”
When she joins me back on the couch, she’s even closer than before, and she leans back into a brief stretch and emits something close to a purr. Then she refocuses on me.
“I can’t believe everything you’ve told me,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you don’t just go to the police.”
She keeps her gaze trained on me as she sips her bourbon, watching for my reaction.
“I’ve got some…some other stuff in my past that makes me hesitant to contact the police,” I say. “That’s a story for another night.”
“Wow, you are full of surprises.” Her hand finds my arm for a moment.
I try to reconcile what I know about Brenda with how she’s acting, and I keep coming to a conclusion that fits a theory that’s been poking at me since last night. I remember that day a couple of years ago, that fund-raiser at the Stone Rose. There were a lot of people taking pictures that day, but I specifically asked Brenda to take pictures as well in case we wanted to put them up on the website. We never did, but she did take pictures. I remember it clearly because she actually used a proper camera, while everyone else just used their phones.
I’m almost certain it was Brenda’s photo of me on the MisterTender.com website. Even if it was hers, that doesn’t mean she was the one who uploaded it, but I’m not leaving here until I find out.
Through this lens, I try to interpret Brenda’s behavior tonight. She’s not reacting to my stories the way Richard did, which was with complete shock and an earnest attempt to help. Instead, she looks at me with what seems sincere surprise, but I’ve learned Brenda is very good at practical emoting. It’s so difficult to understand what is real and what isn’t with her, because Brenda’s talent at being a good listener is at an Olympic level. There’s a real skill in deftly feigning emotions where none exist. I believe it’s called psychopathy.
I take a sip of my bourbon, and if there’s water in it other than the two ice cubes, I can’t sense it. The liquor bites my tongue, then scorches down my throat. I need to be careful.
Then there are the light touches she’s been giving me all night. In the time I’ve known her, I can’t think of her ever mentioning a partner, a date, or a romantic interest of any kind, man or woman. She’s always been very private. And she never touches. It’s as if she’s readying to consume me.
The doorbell rings.
“Wow, it’s late for another trick-or-treater,” Brenda says.
“Last call, perhaps,” I say.
She sighs, then rises and grabs the candy bowl, which contains only a few remaining pieces.
Once she’s near the door, I walk back to my purse, grab my phone, and text Richard.
If I’m not back in a few hours, use that app to find me.
I then tab to the app itself and send Richard a request, which gives him permission to locate my phone.
I silence the phone and slide it back into my purse, knowing I’ve now shifted a huge responsibility onto him. But he wants to help. This is how he can.
I reach into my jacket pocket, still hanging on the back of the chair, and fish the wine opener from inside. It fits snugly in my front jeans pocket.
As I walk toward the hallway, Brenda intercepts me.
“Are you looking for the bathroom?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Down the hallway, past the staircase. Left door.”
Inside a cramped bathroom that it would be fair to call dingy, I turn on the light and the fan, then shut the door as I step back into the hallway. There, I have two options. A set of stairs leading to the second floor and likely her bedroom. Or one other door, directly opposite the bathroom. A closed door.
My chest begins to tighten, my breaths shorter. Heartbeat like a rabbit’s.
Upstairs is too risky. The wooden steps may creak as I walk on them, or she c
ould hear me moving around up there. So I choose the nearby door instead. One quick glance down the hall to make sure Brenda’s not in view, and then I take a step to the door and try the handle.
It’s unlocked. I’ve got maybe a minute, tops.
I open it a crack and see only darkness.
That alone is nearly enough to drive me back to safety. But screw it. I’m committing to this, whatever happens.
I turn on the light and step into the room.
Forty-Seven
It’s a small room, maybe ten by ten at most, and the light comes from a floor lamp in the far corner, which creates long shadows from all the towers of clutter inside. This is a closet, I think. It’s a room, but it’s being used as a closet, a dumping ground. Clothes, still on hangers, stacked in piles on boxes. Books in loose arrangements on the floor. I scan a couple of titles, seeing a range from mysteries to academic texts. An area rug, tightly rolled, stands on end and leans against the wall. A lamp on its side, a tear zigzagging along its shade. In one corner, a heap of shoes, like bodies thrown in a mass grave.
Each second in here is a risk. If she’s just Brenda, the girl at work whom I’ve always known, then getting discovered in this room will be awkward at worst. But if she’s someone else entirely, I may have a real problem.
My body heats. Sweat beads on my forehead, and the panic is starting to turn into actual nausea. My mouth is slick with saliva, the precursor to a good bout of puke.
Keep calm. You can do this. It’s okay.
I touch the wine opener through the front pocket of my jeans, suddenly realizing what little use it is. I quickly scan the room, seeing nothing immediately suspicious. There’s just too much stuff in here, and I need time to pick through things.
Thirty more seconds. Then leave.
I suppress my urge to vomit and focus my efforts on one thing that stands out in this claustrophobic space. Near the far wall is a drafting table, its surface positioned at a working angle, with a single, backless stool in front of it. There is nothing stacked on the table or chair, which makes me think both might be used on a regular basis.
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