Still Here

by Amy Stuart

Clare doesn’t answer. A car horn blasts out the window. She reaches for the glass of water on the bedside table and sips it. Malcolm props himself against the headboard. Clare brings herself to sit too, wrapped in a bedsheet.

  “What is it?” Malcolm says. “Are you okay?”

  There’s a knock on the door. They both jolt.

  Clare reads the fear on Malcolm’s face, a mirror of her own. She stands up, collects her clothes from the floor, and scrambles into them. Malcolm plucks his jeans from the chair in the corner and pulls them on. He looks at Clare and touches a finger to his lips. Quiet. He retrieves a gun from the drawer of his bedside table, then moves to the door and squints through the peephole. He turns back to Clare.

  Charlotte, he mouths.

  “Malcolm?” comes her voice on the other side of the door. “Malcolm? It’s Charlotte. Let me in.”

  Malcolm opens the door with the chain still in place. He holds his gun behind him so that Charlotte can’t see it.

  “Charlotte,” he says, his voice soft. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed Clare last night,” Charlotte says. “Then I followed you both here. I left, then came back. Can you let me in?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Jesus. It’s five a.m. I’m alone.”

  Malcolm twists to look back at Clare. He shakes his head, but Clare nods at him. Let her in. Malcolm closes the door and slides the chain unlocked, opening it enough for Charlotte to step into the room. The space feels instantly smaller with Charlotte there. She looks around, taking in the unkempt bed, the too-warm air.

  “You said you worked for him,” Charlotte says to Clare.

  “What are you doing here, Charlotte?” Malcolm asks.

  But Charlotte ignores him, still addressing Clare. “I followed you after you left Austin’s house last night. I had this feeling. The way you were defending Malcolm. You spoke about him in the present tense. Like he was here.”

  Suddenly Charlotte is crying, her face buried in her hands. “I haven’t seen you in almost two years, Malcolm. You left me here.”

  “Left you? You accused me of killing your father, Charlotte. I had no choice but to leave.”

  Charlotte looks at Clare, blank, lost.

  “Zoe is here,” Malcolm says. “I believe she’s in Lune Bay.”

  “I think she’s with my husband,” Clare says. “My ex-husband, Jason. I think they’re together.”

  “No,” Charlotte says. “No.”

  At this, Clare and Malcolm exchange a look.

  “Malcolm,” Charlotte says. “I need to speak to you. There are things I need to tell you. Before this blows up. I need to talk to you privately.”

  “We can speak here,” he says.

  Charlotte is shaking. She clasps her hands together to mask it.

  “Five minutes without her,” she says, gesturing to Clare. “I’m your family. You owe me that much.”

  Again Malcolm looks at Clare. She nods.

  “Okay,” he says.

  Charlotte steps back out of the room. Malcolm goes to Clare and pulls her in to kiss her forehead. The act feels so intimate that Clare feels herself stiffen against it.

  “I’ll be right outside,” he says.

  When he closes the door behind him, Clare returns to the bed. She sits down again, then stands, pacing, her pulse too quick, her brain unable to compute fast enough. She watches the alarm on the bedside table, anxious. Two minutes. Three. Five. There is another knock.

  Clare? She hears through the door. It’s Charlotte, again.

  Clare stands to open the door. But as soon as she twists the door handle, she thinks better of it. No. What are you doing? Get your gun. Check the peephole. But the door is already open. Charlotte. Her expression is blank, ghostly.

  “What do you need?” Clare asks.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte says flatly. “I’m sorry.”

  Beyond Charlotte is a car, its headlights on. A woman is in the driver’s seat. A woman: Zoe.

  No. Clare tries to slam the door but Charlotte stumbles into the room as if someone has pushed her from behind, knocking Clare off balance. The motel room door slams closed. He is here. Before Clare can scream he’s taken hold of her from behind, a hand gripped to her mouth. He has her in a bear hug. Clare presses backwards into his hold and lifts her legs in a flail. His gun goes off. There is a scream. Charlotte is on the floor next to the bed, holding her stomach, a look of terror on her face. Bleeding.

  Clare opens her mouth, but only a gasp escapes. She writhes and jerks against his hold. Then something hits her. She feels it, the crack against her skull, a stab of warmth on the back of her head. Clare falls forward to the bed, crawling on all fours and then collapsing to her stomach. She looks up and tries to focus. No.

  And then, nothing. The room blurs and fades to black.

  Clare blinks and pats at the back of her head. Warmth. She looks down at her fingertips, red with her own blood.

  Strange, she thinks. I feel no pain.

  The room takes shape. She sits in a large bathtub empty of water, clothes on. The bathtub is in the center of the room. This bathroom: airy, too big, everything white, an open shower. The window over the vanity looks out to a sharp blue sky. Too bright. Clare shifts her position and cranes to check behind her. The bathroom door is closed.

  Yes, Clare thinks. This place. Of course. I know where I am. This is Malcolm and Zoe’s house.

  The pain comes, her skull throbbing. Clare leans back against the tub and closes her eyes to stave off the dizzy spell. She remembers. She was trying to scramble away. It was a strike to the head.

  Voices. Clare cannot decipher how many she can hear outside the bathroom door. She works to pull herself up so she is sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Two voices. A man and a woman. The man’s voice is so acutely familiar that it brings a stabbing pain to Clare’s chest. Jason. He’s here. Of course he’s here. And Zoe. They are here together.

  Malcolm, Clare thinks. Where is Malcolm?

  A small laugh escapes her. This is what you get, Clare thinks. After everything that’s happened, everything you’ve done, this is how it ends.

  The bathroom door cracks open. Clare stands, still in the bathtub. She must steady herself.

  “Clare,” he says, pressing through the half-open door. “Clare?”

  Jason. In front of her. Clare squeezes her eyes closed and then pops them open to regain her focus. He is smiling too kindly. He holds a gun loose in one hand. Clare sees the streak of blood across its barrel. Her blood. Or Malcolm’s?

  “Are you hurt?” he asks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  He looks different. He’s grown a beard, put on some weight. Something else too—a deadness in his gaze. Jason steps forward and reaches out to take her by the arm. When Clare recoils, he frowns playfully.

  “Don’t do that, Clare. You’ve got nowhere to go. This is finally over. I’m here.”

  It comes back to Clare now. This morning, dawn. Malcolm. The motel.

  Where’s Malcolm? Clare wants to ask. But that familiar instinct stops her. She knows the rage Malcolm’s name might stir in Jason.

  “Where’s Charlotte?” she asks instead.

  “Oh wow,” Jason says, ignoring the question, reaching for her hair. “You’re still bleeding.”

  “Don’t touch me,” Clare says, a hiss.

  “Come on,” he says. “This doesn’t have to end badly, does it? You can behave.”

  “Who else is here?” Clare asks. “Who’s here with you?”

  But she need not ask. She knows. The blood drips from her hair and travels in a stream down her spine. It takes all her effort not to sway. Clare closes her eyes again. She must find a way out.

  “You owe me the truth,” Jason says. “Don’t I deserve the truth?”

  The truth? Clare cannot speak. They will not let her out of here alive. She needs to focus. Focus. But she is dizzy. Her thoughts churn too quickly. The truth. He smiles at her. Anger roils in h
er instead of fear.

  “Let me get you something for the bleeding,” he says.

  When Jason steps out and closes the bathroom door behind him, Clare stands frozen, listening. She hears him say something. To whom? She hears a door open and close. Clare grips the sides of the tub and steps out onto the tiled floor. She opens the door. The sunlight in the master bedroom shocks her, the wall of glass. Clare squints against the light in her eyes. She moves to the bed to sit, gather herself. She needs to think.

  The motel room. Dawn. Jason struck her unconscious in the motel room. And then? There’d been a drive, Clare in the backseat with Jason, in and out of consciousness. Zoe was driving. Where was Malcolm? What did they do to Malcolm? Clare stands again and props herself up along the glass window to reach the dressing table. She leans into her reflection. Her hair is matted with blood. Her pupils are dilated. The wooziness is not just from the blow to the head. They must have given her something. Sedated her.

  Get a grip, Clare mouths to her own reflection. You find a way out of this, or else you die.

  When a surge of energy finally comes, Clare moves to the door and finds it locked. How can it be locked from the outside? She tries the large windows, locked too.

  “Fuck,” Clare says, fist to the window’s glass. A sob rises in her throat. Where is Malcolm?

  “Hi,” says a voice behind her.

  Clare spins. Zoe. She has closed the bedroom door behind her. She points the gun at Clare. The same blood-spattered gun that Jason just held. They may only have one gun between them.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Clare says.

  “Sit,” Zoe says, pointing to the bed. “You’re a little unsteady.”

  Clare obeys, retaking her spot on the edge of the bed. Zoe plops into the armchair by the door.

  “Where did Jason go?”

  Zoe waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, God. Who knows? He hasn’t been the most reliable partner. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed either. Kind of disappointing, actually.”

  Partner? In broad daylight, Clare sees Zoe truly for the first time. Malcolm’s wife: Zoe Westman. Her hair has been cut to a bob, curly and dark just like Clare’s. For two months this woman has been at the heart of the mystery behind Malcolm. His missing wife. And now she is here, and her smile is cold. The handgun rests in the triangle formed by her legs crossed on the armchair.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you,” Zoe says.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Clare repeats, standing.

  “Relax.” Zoe lifts the gun and motions to the bed. “And sit the fuck down.”

  Clare does as she’s told. Her brain is scrambled, slow. She knows this feeling too well. She must work against it. Clare faces Zoe dead-on, her posture straight, her hands spread on her legs.

  “What do you want?” Clare asks.

  “Malcolm likes you,” Zoe says.

  “No,” Clare says. “He hired me. He was looking for you.”

  Zoe throws her head back in laughter. Her neck is thin, pale, her fingers long and curled around the gun. Clare notices that Zoe still wears a simple wedding band on her left hand. Zoe must catch Clare’s gaze, because she lifts her hand and wiggles her ring finger.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to take it off,” she says, pointing to Clare’s hand. “Feels like a bit of a shield. I noticed you don’t wear yours anymore.”

  Clare says nothing.

  “It’s kind of wild, isn’t it?” Zoe continues. “We could be twins. We share the same taste in men, clearly. And we’re both definitely Malcolm’s type.”

  “Charlotte,” Clare says. “Where is she?”

  “My sister?” Zoe says. “That’s not really your business, is it? You don’t know anything about Charlotte. But she’s been helpful to me. It’s always been easy to get her to do my bidding. I always knew what buttons to press.”

  “She was hurt. You hurt her.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Your trigger-happy husband, on the other hand…”

  “You. You’re the one who sent me the video,” Clare says.

  “See?” Zoe taps a finger to her temple. “You are smart. But also kind of naive. I figured you’d take it to the police and tell them all about Grayson’s friendship with Malcolm. I knew you’d figure it all out. But you didn’t tell them about Malcolm. You left that part out. You really would do anything to protect him.”

  “Where is he?” Clare asks finally. “Where is Malcolm?”

  “Still here. Of course he is.” Zoe twists a finger through her hair. “Jason has this notion of revenge. You know, tie the guy to a chair. Toy with him. You stole my wife, so now I get to have my way with you. Eye for an eye. That kind of thing. I think your Jason’s watched too many bad action movies.”

  Clare is statue still, listening. She knows Zoe could be bluffing. All she can think to do is keep Zoe talking, to engage in a way she knows Zoe will be unable to resist.

  “You had your father killed. You wanted to pin that on Malcolm.”

  “Give me a break.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “Dad wanted to die. I was the only one with the guts to get it done for him.”

  The perfect crime, Malcolm called it last night. Zoe smiles strangely, as though Clare were her studio audience. She’s taking pleasure in this.

  “What do you want from me?” Clare asks.

  “Me? Nothing. Jason’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

  “You can kill me. Kill us. But it will all catch up to you, Zoe. It was already catching up to you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Zoe says. “Nothing was catching up. You don’t understand anything about money. It keeps you free. The world has opened up to me since my dad died. The real money wasn’t in buying and selling stupid plots of land. That part of the business was bullshit. Small coin, especially in Lune Bay. After my dad died, I figured it out: the real power was with us women. I’m sure you know that, Clare. The power that women have over men. The way we can control things. You can build a whole empire on that alone. And I did.”

  “Young women,” Clare says, her voice gruff. “You mean like Kendall Bentley? Stacey Norton? You traffic women. And then a lot of those women disappear.”

  “I hate that word,” Zoe says. “Traffic. It implies force. I never forced anyone to do anything. I incentivized them. Fair and square. And they didn’t disappear. They just moved on.”

  “You lured them in with money, with drugs, and then you used them. I’m guessing you even used your own sister.”

  “Fuck you, Clare. Like I said, you don’t know anything about Charlotte.”

  “Malcolm was onto you,” Clare says. “He figured out what you were doing a long time ago.”

  Zoe laughs again. “Oh my God. It’s actually kind of amazing. You want so badly for him to be the hero.”

  Clare’s head aches. Zoe loves the attention. She can’t help herself. Clare has to keep her talking. Buy some time.

  “So you did it, then?” Clare prompts. “You built an empire.”

  “I did,” Zoe says. “It was easy to find people to do the work for me once I left Lune Bay. People in other places. Depressed little towns. Lost young women. Angry men. They’re everywhere. The work is really about oversight. Just being the wizard behind the curtain. But you? You knew. You were starting to catch on. To figure it all out. You knew. And I can’t have that. I would have killed you this morning if it was up to me. But Jason is such a lightweight. He wanted time. He wants the last word with you. I think he’s just crazy enough to draw this out.”

  Clare’s head throbs now. She presses her fingers to her temples, dizzy. You knew. There is a knock on the door.

  “Here he is, right on cue,” Zoe says. “Speak of the devil.”

  You knew.

  Zoe has left, taking the gun with her. They’ve switched places. Jason is in the chair now. The bedroom door is ajar. Clare remains frozen in place on the corner of the bed, sitting as motionl
ess as she can, her body buzzing with terror. How many scenes just like this one have played out in Clare’s life? Jason’s hands are bloodied from the small cuts zigzagged along his knuckles. Jason studies her, his head cocked to one side. He wears a slight and crooked smile. In their marriage Clare endured many variations of Jason’s temper, but this is unfamiliar. This rage feels too quiet, too cold. More threatening. Inhuman.

  Take the upper hand, Clare thinks. Find a way. Find a way out, or you die. Clare breathes, steeling herself.

  “Jason,” she says quietly.

  “I’ve missed you, Clare.”

  “I know you have.”

  “Everyone thought you were dead. Your dad and your brother. Even Grace. I think they wanted you to be dead, Clare. Maybe I did too.”

  Clare feels a stab in her chest. He smiles at her.

  “You said I owe you the truth, Jason,” Clare says. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Malcolm?” Clare asks. “Malcolm is a stranger to me, Jason.”

  It used to be one of her tricks, repeating his name. Jason. Quietly, gently, repeat his name.

  “Jason? Just now Zoe said something to me. She said I knew. I don’t know what she meant by that.”

  “Oh, come on. You knew. That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

  It takes all of Clare’s might not to lift her hand to her forehead. She cannot let him see that she is dizzy.

  “Jason,” Clare says. “Were you working for Zoe?”

  “I don’t like it when she puts it that way,” Jason says. “Working for her? Fuck that.”

  Zoe’s words swirl in Clare’s mind. Depressed towns. The oversight. In the months before Clare left she had been so absorbed by her own plans, by plotting her escape, that she’d kept as much distance from Jason as he’d allow. And the death of their baby had granted her more space than he’d normally give. You knew. No, Clare thinks. I didn’t.

  “How did Zoe find you, Jason? I don’t understand.”

  “You know the way things were at home,” Jason says. “Everyone losing their jobs. The place was turning into a shithole. It never felt like enough for me. For us. You know about that, Clare. There was a market for it. Our hometown girls were popular, especially in the city. I was dabbling in it. Helping these girls find their clientele. Then Zoe found me, offered me a template to work from. She made everything so easy. Finding girls, finding clients for the girls. She had it down to a science. My job was just execution.”