To this, Jill says nothing. She seems inordinately focused on her plate. “How about you?” she finally asks. “How long have you and John been married?”
“Ten years, but we’ve been together forever it seems. High school sweethearts.”
“That’s great.”
“How about you two? Where did you meet Mark?”
Jill clears her throat. “He was doing an IT overhaul at a CPA firm I was interning for in Chicago just after I graduated college.”
“Ah.” When she doesn’t continue, Marcy prompts, “Love at first sight?”
Jill doesn’t answer right away, but Marcy’s eyes are hard on her. She doesn’t miss the way Jill’s lips curl at the corners or the dreamy quality that slips down over her features like a silken veil. “Pretty much. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I just knew he’d be a jerk. He was that pretty.”
“Was he? A jerk?”
Jill looks up, frowns. “Of course not.”
Marcy is quick to explain. She doesn’t want to stop this flow of insight. “Oh, good. I mean, I just know that sometimes men can seem like jerks at first. Until you get to know them.”
“No, Mark was good from the start. He…”
Marcy does her best to exercise patience, but it’s never been her strong suit. The one who brings it out most in her is Caroline, but she’s not here. And this isn’t about her. But it could potentially affect her. That’s why she prompts, “He…?”
“I…I meant to say we. We’ve had a great life.”
“You sure seem like a very happy family. I’m glad that’s the case.”
“What do you mean?”
Marcy reaches casually for her own mug. “Just that looks can be deceiving. People hide things.”
“I suppose so. Everyone has secrets.”
Marcy has always felt that to be the case, too, but Jill’s admission is intriguing. Marcy presses a little further. “True, but some have dark secrets. Things like hidden abuse or criminal backgrounds or second families. All sorts of skeletons in the closet.”
Jill doesn’t look up, just gives a noncommittal, “All sorts of skeletons.”
Marcy sips her coffee, hesitant to continue this tack and scare Jill silent. She’s surprised—and encouraged—when Jill makes a bold inquiry of her own.
“So, ten years of marriage. Have they all been smooth? No bumps, near misses? Other women? Other men?” She meets Marcy’s eyes with directness, but then tempers it by adding a light, “Or any of the other ten zillion marital pitfalls we have to choose from?”
“No, nothing like that. We’ve had our moments, of course, but we’ve recovered and stuck it out. All for the best, too. I wouldn’t trade John for anything. He’s the perfect man for me.”
“Just for you?” When Marcy narrows her eyes on Jill, not quite understanding what she’s asking, Jill amends, “I mean, you don’t think he’s the perfect man all the way around. Just perfect for you.”
“You’re asking if my husband is perfect?” Marcy laughs. “Is any man?”
“Some are closer than others.”
“I just meant that he is strong where I’m not, patient where I’m not. Supportive in ways I need him to be. Without question, he’s the perfect man for me.”
“Sounds like you’ve got something special.”
“Tried by fire, but yes. Very, very special.”
“You two must have been through a lot.”
Marcy didn’t want to bring Caroline and her issues into the conversation. Not just yet. “All couples have their challenges. I’m sure you and Mark are no different.”
“No, we’re no different.”
“What about you? Any bumps, near misses, other women, other men on your end?” Marcy is bold as well. Jill can hardly be offended or put off by the exact words she tossed so casually at Marcy only moments before.
“We had a pretty big near miss. Some things a man does… Well, some things are harder to recover from.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Marcy tries not to let her enthusiasm, her curiosity show. She disguises it with a hand reaching across to clasp Jill’s. Her face is covered with a concerned expression and the quiet invitation to share. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Jill stares at Marcy for a long minute before she glances behind her, as though she’s making sure no one else is around. Marcy leans in, ready to take in whatever big revelation Jill is preparing to make. “Mark is…he’s changed a lot over the last couple of years.”
“How so?”
Jill seesaws her head. “I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.”
“Is it something he’s doing?”
“S-sometimes. Sometimes he isn’t really present when he’s here, you know? He’s very distant. Checked out. And then other times, he seems so…so…”
“So?”
“He just seems so angry.”
“Angry? Has he ever…” Marcy hates to actually spell it out, but she’s wondering if Mark is abusive. Clearly, he’s done something to someone, something that was traumatic enough to bring that person in search of retribution. And it’s likely nothing minor. People don’t track a person down to leave such menacing letters over hurt feelings or a few harsh words. No, Mark’s offense must’ve been significant. Marcy just has no idea how significant, or the nature of that significance.
“Ever what?”
“Like, gotten violent or anything?”
“With me? Oh, God no.” Jill’s reaction seems adequately appalled, convincing Marcy that it’s likely not abuse. At least not between the two of them.
“Has he with anyone else?”
Jill pushes a bite of soggy waffle around her plate. It makes streaks in the syrup like a snowplow through snow. “He had a temper when we were younger, but he’s never let it get out of hand with me.”
“Or Cheyenne?”
Jill’s eyes snap up to Marcy’s, and they’re horrified. “How could you even suggest something like that? Mark is a wonderful father despite—”
“Despite?”
“He’s a wonderful father. That’s all I meant to say. And I hate that you would think otherwise.”
Marcy holds up her hands. “I wasn’t suggesting anything. I didn’t think that was the case, but I…I guess I wanted to make sure. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
A frown still pleats Jill’s brow. Marcy can see it in uneven pieces through her heavy bangs, like glimpses of a fireplace mantle through a broken window. She waits quietly for the frown to dissipate. “Y-you didn’t. I just…I would hate for anyone to think Mark is capable of something like that. He might not always be the best husband, but he tries really hard when he’s here. He’s just gone so much and when he comes back, he’s so different for a while. It’s like…”
“Like what?” Marcy keeps her voice soft and gentle, the same tone she would use trying not to spook a deer.
“It’s like he has to settle into being Mark again when he gets back. Like he forgets sometimes while he’s away. It makes me wonder what goes on when he’s not here.” She raises eyes that are nothing short of haunted. She’s seeking understanding in Marcy’s. When Marcy makes no comment, Jill starts to backtrack. “That sounds crazy, I know. Even to me. I’m sure it’s just my imagination.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss it. A woman’s intuition can be remarkably insightful. Let me ask you this: Do you think he’s under a lot of stress when he’s away? I’m sure even his profession can be stressful at times.”
“Yeah, I think he’s stressed. And not just when he’s away. I think he’s stressed here, too.”
“About what? Anything I can help with?”
“No, just normal stuff. I think the move has him on edge quite a bit, too.”
“Did y’all move here because of a job, or for better schools, or...?”
“No. That’s not why we moved. We… There was a...”
Marcy is on pins and needles as she waits, practically drooling for the details behind that ominou
s comment. “There was a…?”
“I got a text not too long ago. It said, ‘You’ll be dead soon.’ I thought it was a prank, but I got another one last week. It said—”
Before Jill can elaborate, Mark appears in the doorway behind her head. His voice is low, but it still makes Jill jump, something Marcy finds curious. “Good morning.”
Jill leaps up from her chair and steps over to Mark, offering up her mouth for a kiss that looks as familiar as the sunrise. “Good morning. Sorry. I didn’t know you were up. Would you like a waffle? Marcy made some this morning and brought a few for us.”
Even though he hasn’t agreed, Jill sets about fixing him a plate. All the while, Mark looks unblinkingly at Marcy. It’s such a direct stare, such a cold glower that Marcy has to purposely resist the urge to fidget. It’s like being silently chastised by an unhappy teacher in grade school. Some people can convey all their displeasure without speaking a word. Mark Halpern is clearly one of those people. And he’s clearly displeased with her presence. Marcy knows when she’s not welcome. “That’s very nice of you, Marcy.”
“Oh, it was no trouble at all. As I was telling Jill, I was making them for my two and I had some extra batter, so…”
“Convenient then.”
Marcy holds Mark’s gaze. “Yes. Very.”
With no polite smile wreathing his face, Mark pulls out the seat next to Jill’s and sits. He laces his fingers together on the table in front of him and never breaks eye contact with Marcy.
Marcy holds it boldly. She’ll be damned if she’ll let a bully like Mark Halpern intimidate her.
Jill, on the other hand, is a bundle of nerves. From the corner of her eye, Marcy can see her fluttering about, and she’s not the least bit surprised when Jill drops Mark’s plate, full of waffles and syrup, as she reaches for his coffee mug on her way to the table.
She mutters a curse under her breath, but then rushes to say aloud, “Sorry. I’ll get that cleaned up and make you another plate.”
Mark is still watching Marcy closely when she returns her attention to the table. He hasn’t looked at his wife once. Nor has he offered to help her clean up the mess.
Marcy smiles into his eyes. “Here, Jill, let me help you.”
She begins to stand, but her words seem to jar Mark out of his strange staring contest. “No, I’ll help her. You’ve done enough.”
The bite to his tone is not lost on Marcy, nor is the real meaning of them. She decides to make her exit. Besides, she knows she won’t be getting any more information out of Jill today.
“You know, I should let you two enjoy your breakfast in peace. Time without kids is crucial for a couple. Besides, I need to get home to Caroline anyway.” From her place on the floor, on her hands and knees with a roll of paper towels at the ready, Jill raises apologetic eyes. Marcy knows what she’s apologizing for. Or, rather, for whom she’s apologizing.
“I’m so sorry, Marcy. I really appreciate the waffles. They were delicious. Next time, I’ll bring breakfast to you.”
Marcy’s expression melts into one of genuine pleasure. “That sounds like a date.”
“I’ll see you to the door.” It is Mark who addresses her, but he doesn’t actually move. It’s evident he has no intention of leaving his wife’s side or extending such a politeness to Marcy. She lets him off the hook for the sake of propriety.
“That is not necessary at all, I promise you. I can see myself out. You two have a great day.”
She bids them both goodbye with a nod, and spins out of the kitchen, heading for the front of the house.
Marcy steps out the door and into the crisp, fresh air and bright, warm sunshine. Her thoughts are alive with conjecture and theory, all based on the tidbits she’d learned. When she enters her own house two minutes later, John is coming out of the kitchen. He stops in the living room. “How’d it go? Did you crack the case?”
She knows he’s being facetious, but what John doesn’t understand is that there is a case here. And she will find her way to the bottom of it. Visit by innocent visit.
“No, but there’s blood in the water. I can smell it. And Mark Halpern is behind it.”
She ignores it when John mumbles here we go again as he heads toward his office in the rear of the house. Her husband can doubt all he wants, but in the end, she’ll have her proof and he won’t be able to make a single snide comment. Until then, she will just smile. A lot can be hidden behind a smile. Marcy learned that long ago.
Chapter Seventeen
My ears pricked at a sound.
I’d gotten water only once more since that first time. Judging by my thirst and level of weakness, that was days ago. As far as I could guess, roughly three. I tried not to think about it.
But this sound was different. It wasn’t dripping. It was…something else.
A ticking sound. Hard. Persistent, like hail battering a tin roof. It pierced the deafening silence. Was painfully loud after hearing so much of nothing for so long. I brought my hands up to my ears, covered them.
Seconds later, an organic scent reached my nose. My jaws tightened, tingled. I knew that if I weren’t so dehydrated, my salivary glands would be spewing saliva into my mouth. They understood what it took my muddled, drug-hazed brain to understand. The sound I heard was food, and it was falling to the ground. This time it was close. The last time water came, I’d decided to stay near the damp concrete where it dribbled down. That way I could be ready.
I stretched out one hand and felt along the concrete until I touched a small, round particle about the size and shape of a pencil eraser. I rolled it between my fingers. It was smooth yet grainy, and when I pinched it, it crumbled. I brought the dusty residue to my nose and inhaled. I’d smelled the aroma before. I couldn’t immediately identify what it was, but I knew it was food.
My stomach growled. That hadn’t happened in so long I couldn’t remember. It was like my body was so consumed with wanting water, it had forgotten what it was like to focus on food.
Bottom line was: I was starving. I knew I couldn’t be overly concerned with what my asshole captor was choosing to feed me.
Before I could overthink it, I stuck out my tongue and licked a few crumbles into my mouth. I nibbled on them with the tips of my canines. My mind worked to identify what it was. It was so familiar, pleasantly so. I knew it had to be good.
But then…
Then, like The Price is Right wheel slowing to a stop on a memory, it hit me. I knew what it was.
Dog food.
My mouth watered for real. Just a tiny bit. Probably in revulsion, but possibly in anticipation. I was pretty disgusted. But I was also pretty damned hungry.
In the end, hunger won out.
I ate.
I was learning that when you were desperate enough, you didn’t ask too many questions, and all of your standards went right out the window. Would I proudly admit to getting down on my hands and knees to lick dirty concrete? Probably not. Would I proudly admit to having eaten a particular brand of Kibbles and Bits? Probably not. But was I eating it?
Hell yes.
Unabashedly and quite ravenously, I scraped the dry food into my hand and shoveled it into my mouth as fast as I could. The flow from the ceiling had already stopped, so I knew this would probably be all that would come for a while, just like the water. I wasn’t about to let someone knock me out with some sort of gas and take away what was left. They’d have to pump my stomach to get that shit back.
The thought brought a rebellious smirk to my mouth.
I ate every piece of food I could find. Even shuffled around looking for more. Like Renfield chasing bugs, only I was chasing bits of dog food that had bounced away.
When I’d gobbled up every scrap, I sat back on my haunches. Quickly realized I might have made a mistake. My stomach lurched. Then made a high-pitched squealing sound that would’ve made more sense coming from a pod of whales in the ocean. And then…then it started to cramp.
I doubled over with a pai
n so sharp it took my breath. I panted and moaned, like Lamaze breathing might help. It didn’t. The spasms got so strong they pulled me all the way onto my side into the fetal position. I rocked back and forth, cradling my stomach. For a few minutes, all I could do was curse Purina. Or whoever made the devil food I’d just eaten.
But the longer I lay there, the more my stomach settled down. Unfortunately, the more my stomach settled down, the more aware I became of my thirst. The food had increased it exponentially. I’d thought it had been bad before, but it was like eating had put it into overdrive. I felt delirious with it.
As I lay there, naked, on a concrete floor, rocking myself back and forth, I felt the thin, tightly-stretched thread that was holding me together start to fray.
My chin began to tremble. I started to cry. No tears fell, but I sobbed so hard and so long, if they had, they’d have filled a bucket.
“What do you want from me?”
The words came out like a pitiful whine. Even to my own ears. I sounded defeated. And I think that was what finally broke the thread.
Defeat gave way to disgust. Disgust to anger. Anger to rage.
That rage deadened my pain. Numbed my helplessness. It was an all-consuming fire and it burned up everything except the rage itself.
I growled. Like a cornered animal. That growl turned into a scream that bellowed out around me. “I know you’re there. Tell me what you want, you bastard! Tell me!”
The instant the words left my mouth, they were gone. They left my lips on a breath and died the moment they hit the padded walls.
I waited and I listened, but no one came. Still, there was only silence. Deafening, maddening, unbearable silence. And in the seconds that followed, I couldn’t be sure I’d ever even uttered a sound.
Chapter Eighteen
Marcy pokes her head into Caroline’s room. She came down for breakfast this morning, but she seemed more sullen than usual. Marcy tried to gently extract information, just something to tell her what was going on inside her daughter’s mind, but Caroline remained silently withdrawn. The moment she finished eating, Caroline left the table and went back upstairs. Marcy hadn’t seen or heard from her since.
Right Next Door Page 9