by A. J. Aalto
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Then she turned off both phones and drifted easily to sleep with a small, satisfied smile lingering on her lips, pressing her face into Greg’s pillow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Friday, October 31. 10:00 A.M.
Gillian stood looking up at Frankie’s broken basement window, idly using the side of her work boot to shove shards of glass into a pile.
Frankie came down her basement stairs with a broom and dustpan. “I just put in a security system. I know I armed it. I’m very good at making sure.”
“I’m sorry this happened to you,” Gillian said, shaking her head. “Maybe Paul’s right. Maybe it’s time to get the police involved.”
“God, no, Gills,” Frankie said hoarsely. “What if—”
“Yes, think of the ‘what if!’ I can’t bear the thought of him being in your house last night while you slept. How fucking creepy is that?”
Frankie made an uncertain noise and held the broom out at her. Gillian frowned but took it and began sweeping up the mess.
Frankie twisted a lock of hair around her fingers and snapped the ends. “I might not have noticed that anything was different right away, but the lamp beside the couch was left on. I always turn it off before bed. The wiring is funny and sometimes it flickers. I don’t trust it on overnight.”
“You should—” Gillian cut herself off before she sounded too much like Mom, and chose a different thought. “Is anything missing?”
She bent over with the dustpan to get as much glass in it as possible. When Frankie didn’t reply, she glanced up. Frankie snapped her blond hair and little broken ends filtered down through the air to land on broken glass.
“I think he licked my bathroom mirror,” she said.
Gillian grimaced. “Eww! He what?”
“And I’m fairly certain he turned my furnace up. It was eighty degrees when I woke up. I never set it that high.” Frankie rubbed her own arms comfortingly. “Big old disgusting wet tongue mark across my bathroom mirror. While I’m sleeping in the next room. Ugh.”
“Is anything missing?”
Frankie shot Gillian a look and then, realizing she hadn’t done the best job of hiding it, nodded rapidly. “Four of my old diaries. I had a whole box of them going back to my high school years in my bedroom closet. He came into my bedroom while I slept, Gillian. He took four.”
Gillian straightened, forgetting the glass. “Which ones? What did you put it in them?”
“Private thoughts. Everything that was troubling me, everything I was feeling. Just…” She seemed at a loss, looked around the room for help, let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh. “Everything, Gillian. All my worries and thoughts.”
“The one with the night Mike fell?” Gillian froze.
“I’m so sorry, Gillian.”
“Quiet,” Gillian snapped, and went upstairs to the front window to watch the street for anything that might move. The bright morning revealed nothing. She checked the locks on the doors, and pulled all the blinds.
“This is all my fault,” Frankie moaned behind her.
“What details did you write down and when?” Gillian demanded. “I need you to remember exactly.”
“I know you did it for me, I needed you. You’re my Pit Bull, my protector.”
“I can’t believe this. You wrote everything about Mike?” Gillian felt faint. “Do you mean to say he has all the details in your handwriting?”
“He won’t do anything with it.”
“How do you know that?”
Frankie laughed bitterly. “He can’t do shit. What’s he gonna do?”
“That’s the problem! What’s he going to do, Frankie?”
“He’s not going to tell anyone,” Frankie scoffed. “And even if he did, who’s going to believe him? It’s just bullshit written in a diary. It’s ridiculous. Anyone who knows you—“
“Don’t. Don’t finish that.” Gillian found herself pacing where just yesterday her sister had been doing so. “You put it in writing. I can’t believe you could be so stupid.”
Frankie’s lips pinched together. “It’s my own private writing. It’s not for other people to snoop in.”
“But they could and they did, and now we’re both in deep shit, do you not get that?” She thought about the upcoming evening, all the kids in their costumes coming to the front door, and her sister opening it over and over. Frankie couldn’t stay here. Halloween was canceled before the paint dried on the pumpkin. “What exactly did you write down?”
Frankie sighed. “I don’t know, just feelings.”
“Names?”
“What, you mean Mike’s name?” She shrugged. “Of course. He was my fiancé. His name is everywhere; that whole year’s entries.”
“Incidents?”
“The first few. I was pretty specific. After that, I just referred to ‘ongoing issues.’”
Gillian flashed back to Mike’s snarling face up close, invading hers, smelling of sour beer, sweat, and sausage. You sound like yer fucking slut sister! And her calm, unblinking reply, Maybe I should leave like she did. The hate-filled blows that took her off guard. The sensation of falling. But just before that, the shove.
“Gillian?” Frankie was staring at her.
The shove.
Pressing her palms against the meat of his chest, and shoving. Hard.
The shock as his hand snatched the front of her cardigan and yanked.
The wet snap of bone.
The unnatural turn of his neck.
The shock of pain ripping through her shoulder, her head.
Seeing stars, then black.
Her sister’s hand on her shoulder, tentative, a butterfly settling on a rotten apple.
Gillian blinked rapidly and stared at the clock. It was ten-thirty. She said, “Go pack your bag. You’re staying with me at the new house tonight.”
“What about Doogie?”
“Bring the pup,” she said, looking at the sleeping old lump of golden fur. “He’s no trouble. Still got that chocolate?”
Frankie exhaled softly and rose from the couch. “I think I do.”
Gillian watched her go, and wondered if Travis Freeman had really fit through the window, if he could have been quiet enough to slink through the house without waking Frankie or the dog. Sure, the damn dog was deaf, but he’d hated most men and was very gruff around them. The only other person who might want a look at Frankie’s diaries is Bobby McIntyre.
She was careful not to voice this suspicion when Frankie returned to the room with a handful of mini chocolate bars.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday, October 31. 2:45 P.M.
“Auntie Gillian. Happy Halloween!”
Colin Keller strode out of the playground and hovered under a well-trimmed weeping willow tree, choosing a shady spot in which to lean against the fence. The wiry young man watched her approach with a broad smile. From his finger dangled a black bag.
“Forgot your purse at my house again,” he faux-scolded, watching a gaggle of middle-school kids rush by on the sidewalk.
Colin was not her nephew, nor any other sort of relative. He used to live with foster parents on Red Maple Drive when he was a young teen; Greg had busted him selling pot and let him off with a warning. He’d since expanded his wares, and after Greg died, Colin had approached her at the funeral to express his sympathies and remind her that he was “there for her.” She remembered his hand on her bad shoulder. He’d shot up a good eight inches since she’d last seen him, all grown up in his black suit and tie. He’d noted the pain on her face, asked her if she was having one of her headaches, sympathized, spun her a nice tale about his dear old granny who suffered terribly with migraines (a story Gillian suspected was only true in his head). He’d put an envelope in her hand, told her he wanted to help, explained the difference between OxyContin and Vicodin, and left her with his free samples, assuring her he’d “check in on her in a few weeks
and see how she was doing.”
That had been three years ago. Now he was a young father, waiting for his daughter to come charging out of kindergarten, selling Gillian Vicodin outside an elementary school. She hated herself for needing it, loathed him for selling it to her, and couldn’t imagine life without it or him; her shoulder, neck, and head had not recovered from her fall, not with surgery and physiotherapy, and the pain meds the doctors offered never really cut it.
Gillian took Colin’s beat-up backpack off her left shoulder. It was full of small purses. One contained several thousand dollars in cash. “And you left your school bag at my house.”
“Aw, man, thanks,” he said, comfortable with their routine. “I’ve got an exam next week.”
“Math?” She knew the school part was true.
Colin’s smile slid sideways; he was enjoying himself. “College level. Greg would be proud.”
Gillian’s lips tightened. “Please don’t say that. Greg wouldn’t be proud of any of this.”
“I dunno,” Colin glanced over his shoulder and smiled as his little blonde sweetheart flew out of the school and headed straight for the monkey bars. “I think he’d like Katie. Only thing I ever did right. Look, I could come by on Sunday morning if you need company.”
Company was code for a refill, which they’d often fill quietly on her big covered porch over iced tea and cookies. Gillian wondered what his wife thought. Maybe the poor woman actually believed he went to Red Maple Drive to visit his Auntie Gillian. Colin had no family left, real or foster, no one to tell her differently.
She nodded, relieved but ashamed. “Don’t bring Katie this time, please. It makes me feel—“
“I know,” he said, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and pushing off of the fence in one smooth move. “Little kids make headaches worse. I understand. Talk to you soon.”
“Colin?”
He paused in the grass. Katie had spotted her father and was waving like mad from the top of the monkey bars. He waved back and said, “Uh huh?”
“Might wanna talk about home security stuff. Think you could help me with that?”
He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Woman living alone should be able to feel safe in her own home. I’m sure we can figure something out. Wait…” His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Gillian saw the fox in sheep’s clothing, the sharp teeth, the hungry focus. “Sure it can wait until Sunday? I could drop by later tonight.”
“No, there’s no immediate rush.”
“It’s not urgent?”
Gillian’s belly fluttered but she mastered it with a single long exhale. “I’ll make us some cookies for Sunday.”
“You got my digits. Hit me up if you change your mind.” She watched him go, flaxen hair like spun gold in the bright sun, slipping on his sunglasses and hurrying over to Katie as she clambered down for a hug. She squealed as he picked her up in the crook of one arm, then slapped him on the shoulder and lectured him on safety in the playground, her tiny, squeaky kid voice solemn and serious. He pretended to be humbled, apologized profusely, and set her on her feet, at which point she ran for the swings, pigtails slapping her shoulders.
Colin shot Auntie Gillian one last glance, and went to the swings.
Feeling vaguely like Pandora, Gillian walked home. On Sunday, she would ask Colin to sell her a gun.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday, October 31. 4:00 P.M.
Bobby McIntyre’s sister Barb lived in a small village west of Derby Harbor called Sugarloaf, in an aggressively nondescript suburban brick bungalow at 84 Winthrop Lane. The streets had signs warning of children and pets in the neighborhood and plenty of crosswalks for schools. The trees were carefully maintained and the lawns raked mostly clear, though the afternoon’s cold, damp wind had blown down many of the remaining leaves, scattering them into gutters, around car tires, and in scattered drifts.
Gillian slowed her Jeep to peer closely at the house numbers, pulling her glasses from her purse to slide them on. She’d only been to Barb’s once, after her and Bobby’s mother’s funeral, to bring a casserole and a Bundt cake in freezer-ware, and to offer to tidy up if they needed help. Barb’s home had been immaculate, even the small converted dining room that had served as her mother’s bedroom, complete with hospital bed and monitors and all the paraphernalia dying required. There had been no tidying for Gillian to help with, but she’d held Barb’s hand while she cried, made sure the tea and coffee was always brewing for the guests who dropped in to relay their sympathies, and did her best to fill in where Bobby was, in Gillian’s opinion, falling short. Drunk by nine in the morning and slurring through the whole funeral, Bobby McIntyre was no help to anyone, and Barb was too deep in mourning to help herself or her sister. Frankie had been in Lisbon with the kids, and Gillian told her not to even consider cutting their trip short, picking up all the slack and taking care of things. At least, for that one day.
Now Barb was sick, if Frankie’s gossip was to be believed, and showing a lot of the same symptoms that the doctors couldn’t diagnose when her mother died. The illness was a weird one, surging forward and leveling off; Frankie said Bobby was mystified and worried that it was something in their genes, that she’d be next. At least this time, Gillian thought, Bobby was sober and able to help her sister. That was an improvement, she was forced to concede.
Gillian parked in front of the bungalow at the curb, noting that all the curtains and blinds were closed tight. She leaned into the back seat to retrieve a plastic bag, got out of the Jeep, and strode carefully around several large puddles to ring the doorbell.
Bobby answered the door, and it was clear she was shocked to see Gillian standing there. They stood blinking at each other through matching pairs of glasses.
“Bit early for trick or treat?” Gillian tried to joke, but Bobby’s face didn’t soften. “May I come in?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Bobby said anxiously, looking both ways down the street. “What if…”
Gillian waited for the end of that sentence, shifting from one foot to the other on the porch. “What if what?”
“That creep Frankie dumped could have followed you here,” Bobby scolded. “Think I need the hassle? Think I want on that guy’s hit list?”
“I’m fairly certain I wasn’t followed, but I understand,” Gillian said. “And I should have called first, I’m sorry. This is rude.”
“You can’t just show up unannounced,” Bobby agreed.
Gillian bit her tongue so she wouldn’t point out the irony of Bobby McIntyre of all people saying those words. “I just brought Barb a care package,” she said instead. “I can leave it with you if it’s a bad time.”
Barb called out from inside the house, “Is that Gillian Ellis?”
“Gillian Hearth now,” Bobby bellowed over her shoulder. “God, keep up. Don’t remind her she’s a widow. That’s cruel, even for you, Barb! Her husband is dead. Have some goddamn sensitivity.”
Gillian tried to hide her surprise and shook her head. “No, it’s fine. Either name is fine. I only went back to my maiden name because…” She stopped dead. The Ellis family had blamed Gillian for Greg’s death. According to them, she’d encouraged him to stay on the police force instead of suggesting a safer line of work, and once he’d been shot and killed, Gillian no longer deserved to wear the Ellis name. Insulted, and disgusted with her in-laws, she’d quickly and quietly agreed to reclaim her maiden name. She knew Greg would have understood.
Bobby, on the other hand, would take that morsel and run with it God knows where, she knew. So she finished, “For business purposes. May I give this to Barb?”
“Just be quick about it,” Bobby said with a put-upon sigh. “I still have all this laundry to do and cooking and cleaning and nobody’s around to help out so don’t expect it to be a frickin’ show-home or anything.”
Gillian smiled to disarm. “Of course not, this is a very difficult time for both of you,” she said, but nothing could have prepared her for t
he hoarder-level mess just inside the door.
The living room was piled with dirty clothes, dishes covered with food in varying levels of decay, garbage, empty cans, papers, and tools. There were four interior doors with the hinges still attached leaning against the far wall. Gillian dragged her attention away from that to the room to the right, from which Barb’s voice emanated. The sick room was in equal disarray, and the smell of vomit in a bucket on the floor was nearly overwhelming. Gillian breathed through her mouth, plastered on another smile, and approached the cranked-up hospital bed, where a paler, skinnier version of Barb McIntyre laid.
“Brought you some crosswords and number puzzles,” Gillian said. “And chocolate, though you might not want it today.”
Barb chuckled sadly. “Won’t stay down, so I’ll save it for a better day.”
Bobby took the bag before Barb could touch it and said, “I’ll check this stuff out and make sure it’s okay for you. Gotta be careful. You’re very sick.”
Barb drawled, “Thank God I have you to tell me, I’d never have figured it out on my own.” She rolled her eyes at Gillian. “Just put me out of my misery already. I think a crossword puzzle book isn’t going to be too stimulating for my poor heart. See how she worries about me? She’s been an angel, I admit it. But such a pain in the ass. I’d kill for something to do. I’m stir-crazy in this room. All I do is sleep and puke.”
“Gosh, Barb, do the doctors know anything yet?” Gillian asked, looking for a chair she could pull up beside the bed, but finding nothing she could use without picking through soiled, mildew-smelling clothes and garbage.
Barb shook her head. “It’s just like with mum. Better for a while and then whammo, the vomiting comes back, I can barely walk to the bathroom. I feel like a burden, I swear.”
“When did it start?” Gillian wanted to know.
Bobby cleared her throat. “Should I make coffee or anything?”
“No, thanks, I try to steer away from caffeine,” Gillian told her, and turned to Barb. “I get headaches, and I save my caffeine intake for those days, to help with my remedy.”