The two boys began lifting the books out of the cabinet and taking them out in the hallway, cell phones still lighting the way. She knew she should be helping them but all she could do was sit on the nice cream carpet of Pechman’s office and stare into the cabinet space.
Hours. That mean little voice again. Hours in the dark. Alone.
But I won’t be. She flexed one arm in front of her. The one that had bled in her dream. I’ll let her in this time.
* * *
—
Ten minutes to move the books. Another five to find a toolbox. Five more to find a screwdriver that fit the screws keeping the shelf in place. Nearly fifteen to actually get the shelf out, Henry panting and sweating, his arm contorted inside the cabinet, Andrew kneeling next to him, moving the light every so often. Catherine watched them from her spot on the carpet. She was behaving strangely, she could tell. That endless stare, that separateness that came over her like a cloak. She pressed her palms into the carpet and thought, I’m not here. None of this is real.
The boys were close together. She found this fascinating for some reason, their features in the faint light, the phone light darting like a moth inside the cabinet, casting shadows. Henry was all jaw, Andrew all cheekbones. Henry square and Andrew almost triangular in his thinness. Henry was tanner, his hair just a little lighter than his skin, but Andrew was like a male Snow White: black hair and black eyes. They weren’t quite physical opposites but it was a close thing.
“Catherine?”
Henry had turned to her. The shelf was on the carpet, the cabinet completely empty now.
“It’s almost eight-thirty. We should get out of here.”
“Right.” We meant him and Andrew. Not her. She, of course, was staying. She’d even used a nearby bathroom earlier, just in case, creeping down the dark hallway with her heart beating so hard it hurt to breathe. There was no need to leave again.
“We’ll be just down the hall. You have your phone?” She nodded; she’d already turned it to silent. “And you’ll be okay?”
“Of course she won’t.” Andrew wasn’t looking at Henry but at Catherine. “Just look at her.”
Andrew moved toward her. She heard his jeans scraping against the carpet. “Look, you don’t have to do this.”
She said nothing.
“You can leave. We can leave. All of us, right now. We’ll put the books back and…” Andrew shot a look at Henry. “I think this is a bad idea,” he said. “I just want to make that clear. I think it’s dangerous.”
Be careful out there.
Don’t want to get hurt.
“Well, it’s not up to you,” Henry said calmly. “Is it?”
She knew what he meant. It was up to her. If she said no even now, after everything, Henry wouldn’t argue. He and Andrew would screw the shelf back into place and return the books. Then they’d all leave and they wouldn’t even think badly of her for it.
But then she’d be that girl again, the one running into the night without her coat. So scared she hadn’t even thought to look behind her to check the number on the dorm room door. Crying under hot water as she scraped off the blood, feeling as though she were skinning herself, shedding pieces down the drain, emerging as something different altogether than who she had been before.
“I can do this,” she said, and it had the taste of a lie: sickly sweet and said too fast, like stolen candy swallowed down.
Two minutes later, at 8:27 in the morning, she was alone in the blackness of the office, her back to the open cabinet doors, waiting.
Andrew was looking at Henry as though he’d like nothing better than to hit him in the face, but Henry thought he could take him.
They sat facing each other in the maintenance closet, which was much larger than a regular closet, filled with gray industrial tubing and massive square machines that hummed. Andrew was leaning against one of them and Henry sat against the wall several feet away. The concrete was cool at the back of his head.
“You look like you want to kill me,” Henry said, his tone matter-of-fact.
Andrew scowled. “It’s a stupid plan.”
“Way to point that out now, when it’s too late to back out.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Fine. Then go get her. Drag her out of the office.”
“You’re talking about it like she wants to do this.”
“She doesn’t want to,” Henry said, and he could tell his voice was losing its calm now. It was as though Catherine had been a buffer between them these last few days and now that she was gone and they were left alone, they could say what they liked. “She needs to. You never saw her and Amy together. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Catherine. How much she cared about Amy. You don’t know her like I do. Don’t pretend you do.”
“You’re locking her in a room with a murderer. Possible murderer. Whatever.”
“And another person,” Henry pointed out. “And we’re here. She’s not alone.” He gave Andrew a searching look. “Unless you think you can’t help her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Henry shrugged, casual, but his muscles were rigid. “You didn’t help her before.”
“I couldn’t—” Andrew broke off. “You don’t know. You weren’t there that night.”
“But you were.” Henry’s eyes found the other boy’s and he suddenly wanted Andrew to hit him—so he could hit him back. “I swear to God, if you did something to her—”
“I didn’t!” Andrew protested; then he seemed to get control of himself. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “I didn’t do anything.”
“And that’s why you’re here. Why you stayed when she asked you to. You want to do something.”
Andrew shook his head, his expression pained, then looked back at Henry. “They found DNA,” he said, his voice almost defiant. “Bob told me last night. So that’s something.”
Henry suddenly felt much more charitable toward the other boy. It wasn’t the worst idea, he reminded himself, knowing someone so close to the investigation. It definitely gave them access to more information than they would have had otherwise.
But he still didn’t trust Andrew in the slightest. At least, not when it came to Catherine.
“You know what DNA stands for?” Henry asked him.
“Deoxy…something or other.”
“Do Not Argue. Because it’s such strong evidence.”
“They have the time of death, too. Around eleven, Bob said. So they’re checking alibis. They can get warrants for DNA for anyone who doesn’t have one. That Eric Russell guy for sure, to start.”
“Eleven? You’re sure?”
Andrew nodded. “That’s what Bob said. Between nine and eleven the night of the twenty-sixth. What?”
Henry shook his head. “It’s just—that’s a weird time to have an alibi. Everyone’s just going to say they were in bed.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone will say they were watching TV or sleeping. I mean, where were you between nine and eleven that night?”
Andrew gave him an incredulous look, but Henry didn’t blink.
“I was driving here,” Andrew said finally. “Got in at ten-thirty.”
Henry flashed a grin. “See? Sucky alibis, every single one.”
“And yours?” Andrew said. “Where were you?”
“On a date.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows.
Henry wanted to laugh but resisted. “That Grant guy, at the police station? The one who kept looking like he wanted to kill me? I was out with his daughter that night. Well, him and his daughter, because he literally followed us to the restaurant. I actually don’t know how long he was there but I noticed him just as we got dessert. I’ve never ea
ten a tiramisu so fast in my life.”
And here he thought that date had been a huge mistake, Brittany neglecting to tell him her dad was a cop, but at least he had an alibi—unlike the boy sitting opposite him.
“Listen,” Henry said, because Andrew was looking disgruntled. “I don’t think you killed anyone. I just…I don’t know you, okay? So it’s weird.”
“It is weird,” Andrew admitted. He tapped his fingers on his jeans. “So you really think it’s the pastor?”
Henry cast his eyes toward the closed door, in the direction of Pechman’s office. He wondered what Catherine was doing as she waited. He could almost see her now, her pale eyes and hair still visible in the darkness of the office, reflecting even the smallest amount of light. She’d always been terrible at hide-and-seek in the woods, all those years ago, her eyes never quite as good as his, while he could spot her at any distance.
You can see me in the dark, she’d said, panting under his hands, her mouth curving up at him. How is that fair, that you can see me in the dark? She’d smelled like leaves and rain. Like his childhood. He’d wondered then if she’d felt it too, that ache that went all the way to the bone.
You choose poorly, his mother had said.
But she was wrong. Catherine had never been a mistake. Hell, she’d never been a choice at all.
“Henry?”
Andrew was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.
“Yes,” Henry said at once, but in his mind, the image of Catherine disappeared.
And he saw James instead of John.
At 10:32, she heard footsteps.
Seconds later, Catherine had pushed herself into the cabinet, her shoes scraping on the wood first, her legs coming next, shoved against her chest, her arms resisting, not wanting to leave the carpet but she made them and jerked the rest of her inside. She pulled at the cabinet doors, letting her fingers go just in time for them to shut, a vibration she felt surround her. She breathed in dust and darkness. She heard the footsteps, louder now, and closed her eyes. She should have gone in earlier but hadn’t been able to make herself do it. Those open cabinet doors, the heavier darkness inside it—it reminded her of animal traps snapping shut, of drawbridges slamming down in fairy tales. Something in her refused to go inside the cabinet until she had to.
Inside the cabinet now, she reached for her phone, hands scrabbling across her leggings, the wood under her—
Dread like bile.
She’d left it on the carpet.
One second.
Two.
Her mind split in half along a red line of panic.
Move!
She pushed open the door and shot her left arm out, half expecting someone or something to grab it, but that didn’t happen. Instead her hand was opened wide, starlike, fingers reaching, and she needed light but if there was light then that meant he was there and he’d see her and—
Plastic. Hard. She felt it click against her nails.
A light came on in the hallway just outside the office. She saw the line of it under the door.
She jerked her arm back—phone in hand—and had just managed to shift completely back inside the cabinet when she heard the lock turn.
She pulled the cabinet door closed, and this time the darkness was brief. No more than three seconds passed between when she closed the cabinet door and when the office light turned on. It sliced through to her: two thin gold beams at the top of the cabinet doors, one by her face, almost exactly at her eyeline, and another casting a stripe of gold on her black leggings, right at her bent knees.
For some reason the light surprised her. She was expecting complete darkness. She’d almost gotten used to it in the past couple of hours, waiting in the black, listening to the sound of her breath, her mind going flat and blank, the panic held back as though by an outstretched arm.
But the unexpected light didn’t help. She still couldn’t see anything; the gap was too thin. And the light was shining right at her face, her eyes, and she had to squint against it, almost like a spotlight. She waited for his footsteps to cross his office and stop, to turn toward her. Not even a minute in the cabinet before he found her out.
She realized she’d begun to sweat through her deodorant, through her clothes even. Would he be able to smell her? Her back was already starting to protest, the knobs of her spine against the wood. Her legs were okay for now but she wasn’t sure that was going to last. And her neck was bent forward, her nose almost to her knees.
She hadn’t realized this was going to hurt. That hadn’t been a consideration at all.
You’re fine, she told herself. Breathe.
Quiet. Slow. In. Out.
How was he not hearing her? But as the minutes passed, she grew a little calmer. He was moving around, shifting things, and that didn’t make her nervous like she’d thought it would. He was humming and clicking his tongue and the sound made her realize that he didn’t suspect anything. At some point he booted up his computer and she heard the whir of it like a faint engine. The keyboard tapping. His exhale. A swallow. Coffee? She peered through the gap but it was no use; she might as well have been blind.
God, her neck hurt.
In. Out. Quiet. Slow.
He was talking on the phone. She was gratified that she could hear him perfectly. If anything, his voice was slightly amplified in the small space.
“John Pechman.” Pause. “Oh, no, I’m here. Rather later than I would have liked. Well, you know how it is. Teenagers.” The creak of the leather chair. Was he leaning back in it? “I know, I can’t believe it either. I’m amazed James even agreed to spend Christmas with his lowly parents.” A laugh. “No, he’s thinking of California, actually. USC. Yes, his chances are good, I think. With everything taken care of now. Though some extra prayers wouldn’t go amiss!” A pause. “Excellent. Well, thanks for letting me know. Really great.” A pause. “Right. Exactly. My thanks again, Grant. Yes. Yes. Okay. Give my best to yours. Thanks. Okay. Bye.”
She heard Pechman start typing again, and then another swallow. She closed her eyes. Breathe. But it was dusty. She wanted to cough. To sneeze. At one moment she thought she was going to and squeezed her eyes shut but it was entirely silent, her head jerking forward and hitting her knees, and even that was muffled. When her eyes opened again they were wet. Very slowly, she lifted her right hand to wipe her nose. Even that slight shift in movement sent a bolt of pain up her curled spine and she gritted her teeth.
What time was it? She checked her phone: 10:58. Just an hour, maybe even less, until the meeting. It wasn’t like a pastor was going to be late. And look at the positive: At least the meeting was here. At least they’d been right.
Time. Time. Time. Minutes. Seconds. The agony of that hour between eleven and twelve. An exercise in mind over matter. At one point it sounded like Pechman had left his office and she actually considered getting out, collapsing from the cabinet and just breathing different air for a minute or two, but then she heard his footsteps again and that was when she started crying.
Quietly, of course. Silent crying. Her face burning. She should have felt the tears leak through her turtleneck, but she was so soaked in sweat at that point that she didn’t.
She cast her mind away, apart. Tried to make it leave the cabinet, the way people said they left their bodies during the worst moments of their lives. Did the people in hell do that? The ones in the trees? She’d learned that they were flung randomly into the forest, and that wherever they landed was where their tree grew, with their soul trapped inside it. The randomness, the carelessness, was supposed to mirror how the self-murderers had treated their own bodies. They had cast their bodies aside, so in hell their bodies were cast aside as well, to be trapped and preyed on by harpies: bloated birds, like vultures that screamed and cried. But that wasn’t all bad, apparently, because only when the trees were injured could
they express their anguish or sorrow at all. Otherwise they were just trapped in their own still, silent misery.
Demon vultures and suicide victims that couldn’t express pain unless they were hurt more. It was fucked up, as Amber would have called it. Royally fucked up.
But she got it now. By the time her phone clock showed noon, Catherine had been in the office nearly four hours, and in the cabinet, bent in a C shape, for ninety minutes. Her body was a yawning cavern of pain, her muscles screaming to her brain, which was lit up red, her neurons firing like the Fourth of July.
Something was coming with the pain, something she’d only had glimpses of since that night, when she’d struck out at Andrew, or threw away her coat, or bolted for yet another shower. Her body’s pain lowering her defenses against the reality—not just that it had happened, but that it had happened to her.
I was raped.
By a stranger.
I can’t talk about it.
I just want to be with Amy.
Bloated demons made of wings and talons were scraping along the gnarled length of her. She was splintering, about to break.
“Ah, Ken, come in.”
She came back at the sound of Pechman’s voice, staring into the thin gold light at her eyeline. And Catherine knew—just as she had known that summer afternoon in the front yard, when she’d told Amy to go inside without her—that it wasn’t a question, whether she could do this. When it came to Amy, Catherine would do anything.
She heard the door opening and closing. Footsteps. Pechman’s chair shifting. Would Ken sit on the couch? Lower. Awkward. But then there was a dragging, scraping sound close to her and she remembered the chair next to the cabinet. She held her breath as it was moved, the sound of it against the carpet like the exhale of an animal. She pictured the two men sitting opposite each other, the jutting L of the desk between them.
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