“I’m writing a paper for lit class. It’s on Macbeth. Want to read what I have so far? It was only supposed to be ten pages, and I’ve already got an outline for twelve pages. It’s going to be really good, Liz.”
I frown. I look like I’m about to cry. Obviously, he doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “Richie. Who cares about Macbeth?”
“I do. I care.” Richie pauses. “Have you even read the play yet?”
I actually stomp my foot in agitation. “You know I’m more of a CliffsNotes kind of girl, Richie. It’s just a stupid play.”
“Liz, I’m sorry. The paper’s due tomorrow. You haven’t started yours yet, have you?”
What I understand now—and what Richie didn’t know then, and still doesn’t know—is that I have much, much bigger things to worry about. I have to get my car back before my parents ever notice it was gone. Besides, I can probably talk my way into getting an extension on the paper.
Richie runs a hand through his messy hair. “Can’t we pick the car up tomorrow? I’ll give you a ride after school, I promise.”
“It has to be today!” I’m almost shrieking, clearly frantic to get my car back. “Richie, I know you think I’m being prissy and ridiculous, but I need your help. Please.”
“Liz, I don’t think you’re being prissy and ridiculous. I know you’re being prissy and ridiculous. Here.” He puts his hand into his pocket, pulls out a fistful of change and dollar bills. “This is more than enough. Take the bus. It’ll be like a ten-minute ride.”
My mouth falls open. “Take the bus?” I repeat. “Who the hell do I look like to you? Do I look like a homeless person? What if someone tries to accost me? What if we get held up? Haven’t you ever seen that movie with the woman on the bus where there’s a bomb?”
“You mean Speed?” He snorts. “Yes. Liz, there won’t be a bomb.” He takes a step closer to me. He touches my hair. He kisses me on the lips. “I think it will be good for you. It will be broadening. You go ahead and take the bus, honey, and when you get back, you can come tell me all about how horrible it was.”
I don’t have a choice, do I? I take the money from his outstretched hand. “Oh, trust me. I’ll tell you all about it.” As I start to leave the room, I call over my shoulder, “If I make it back alive!”
So here I am: alone on a Sunday afternoon in the still-deserted Fender Benders garage. Just before I left, I tried to talk Josie into coming with me, but there was no way she would take the bus. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad. Almost everyone looked normal. Relatively normal. You know—for the bus.
My car is parked outside the garage. It appears good as new. As I’m looking it over, Vince strolls up to me with Rocky the bulldog in tow. Rocky, I notice, is not on a chain or a leash.
“I just want my keys,” I tell him. “I have to get home.”
Vince nods. Rocky stares at me, threads of slobber hanging from his gums. I try smiling at the dog, but it only makes him bark loudly.
“So … my keys. Where are they?”
Vince leans against my car, his filthy coveralls pressing right up against the shiny red paint. Even though I know I didn’t have much of a choice, I still can’t believe I came here alone. I can’t believe Richie let me come here alone. On a bus. Knowing myself, I’m certain that he is so going to hear about this later, whether he has a paper to finish or not.
“This might surprise you,” Vince begins, wiggling his pinky finger in his ear, “but I’m a big fan of the local news.”
I cross my arms. “So? What, do you read the papers, too? Good for you. Give me my keys.”
“Matter of fact, I do read the paper. That surprises you, don’t it? Bet you thought I was illiterate.”
I swallow the gum I’ve been chewing. Even though I’ve got a full face of makeup, even though my hair is perfectly styled, there’s an ashen look to my face, and my eyes are bloodshot. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d barely slept at all the night before. I imagine I might have stayed up, scanning old yearbooks for more photos of Alex Berg. I picture myself poring over them, studying his face, trying to replace the image of him that had already been burned into my brain: bloody face, desperate eyes, trembling mouth gasping for that final, horrible breath.
“I didn’t assume you were illiterate.” Why am I even having this conversation with him? I should snatch the keys from his filthy hand—they’re right there, less than an arm’s reach away—and get out of here.
“Anyway, it’s the funniest damn thing. You know, last week, a kid in your town got killed riding his bike home from work. They just found his body a couple of days ago. You hear about that?”
I put a hand on my stomach. I’m probably nauseated; watching myself interact with Vince, I’d be surprised if I weren’t sick to my stomach. I probably should have eaten that morning, but I’m guessing I didn’t.
Control. It’s all about control. Or—I realize now—the illusion of being in control. I probably won’t let myself eat lunch after I get home from this encounter with Vince, either. Instead, maybe I’ll go for a long run. That is, after I finish chewing out Richie.
“I heard all about it,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone light. “It was a hit-and-run. It was terrible. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, it has to do with a lot, Liz. Or is it Elizabeth? Can I call you Elizabeth?”
“No.”
“All right, Elizabeth. Let me cut to the chase.” His lips curl into a satisfied grin. “You hit that boy, didn’t you? I knew you were lying about hitting a parking meter, that’s for damn sure. Didn’t make any sense at all.” He scoffs. “What kind of idiot hits a parking meter? And with their right front fender?” Vince shakes his head. “Nope. Didn’t make sense.”
My whole body is shaking. Gum, bile, whatever’s in my stomach—I’m sure it’s all churning now. “You’re wrong. I didn’t hit him.”
“Well, whoever was driving your car is the one who hit him. I’m damn sure of that. See, Elizabeth, even though this was under-the-table work, I’m in the habit of taking pictures of my repairs. It’s become automatic over the years. And while I was taking photos, I noticed this.” He pulls a printed photograph from his back pocket and hands it to me. It’s a picture of the underside of my front fender. There, in a spot I didn’t notice when I inspected the car myself, is a spot of blue paint, surrounded by several small scratches on the Mustang.
“Blue,” Vince says, as though any explanation is necessary. “Blue like the kid’s bike. Am I right?”
We stare at each other. I can actually see myself shaking, my bottom lip trembling. None of this would be happening if Richie were here—would it? Wouldn’t he protect me? But he’s not here, and I’m all alone with Vince and his ugly dog, and he can do anything he wants to me. Anything. This is worse than a bomb on a bus. This is a nightmare. And there’s a part of me that knows I deserve it. I killed someone. People don’t just get away with a thing like that. Not even people like me.
“What do you want?” I ask.
Vince smiles again. “Lots of things. We’ll start with five hundred bucks. You can bring it to my apartment later this week.” His eyes graze my body. “No. Not later this week. Make it tomorrow. Maybe you and I can have some fun, too. What do you think?”
“Five hundred dollars,” I say. “That’s all. Nothing else.”
Vince raises a single eyebrow. “I don’t think you get to make the rules anymore, Elizabeth. Five hundred bucks. You and that hot little body of yours, at my place, alone. Tomorrow. Or else I go to the cops and show them this picture. You don’t want that, do you?”
I shake my head. I’m crying.
Vince hands me my keys. “I’m at the Covington Arms. Apartment number nine. I’ll see you tomorrow, you beautiful bitch.”
I pull over twice on the highway back to Noank, veering right off the road to an onslaught of car horns and lovely gestures from my fellow drivers. I am crying so hard, shaking so violently, that I have to p
ull over for a third time before I reach my street in order to compose myself. What choice did I have? Aside from doing what Vince wanted—which is what I know I ended up doing anyway—the only other option is to confess that I’m responsible for Alex’s death. I know I can come up with the money easily enough, but I can tell I’m terrified by the idea of what he might want from me physically. At the very least, I know I won’t have sex with him. I’m a virgin, for God’s sake. I’m saving myself for Richie. I will not sleep with Vince Aiello. I did not sleep with Vince Aiello.
I manage to collect myself well enough that, when I pull into my driveway and see Richie smoking out his window, I wave at him and force a weak smile.
“You made it,” he calls. “You’re alive.” He grins. “I take it there was no bomber on the bus?”
I shake my head.
“Want to come over? I’m almost done with my first draft. I’d love for you to read it.” He tosses his cigarette butt onto the lawn. “You might learn something about Macbeth. It’s a really great story. You’d actually like it, I think.”
I shade my eyes, staring at him. “I’m going to go for a run,” I call.
“Again?” He frowns. “Weren’t you already out this morning?”
“It’s cross-country season.” I shrug. It’s a flimsy explanation.
“Oh. Well, you’ll come over later, then?” He looks at the Mustang. “The car looks great, by the way.”
“Yeah, it does. And sure, I’ll stop by later. Tonight. Okay?”
“All right.” He stands up, moves to close the window. As an afterthought, he says, “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t go with you. But it was all right, wasn’t it? Vince doesn’t bite.”
I close my eyes. I look like I might start crying again. “You were right,” I say. “It was fine.”
“Good. Love you, Liz.”
“I love you, too.”
Inside the house, Josie is half-asleep on the living room sofa. An open can of diet soda rests on the coffee table, along with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn. She’s watching some stupid reality TV show while simultaneously attempting to read Macbeth. I notice she’s barely past the first few pages. Looking at her now, it doesn’t surprise me. Richie is the only person I know who loves Shakespeare. I remember that, before I died, it always put me to sleep. Apparently, it has the same effect on Josie.
“Hey.” I shake her awake, hard. “We have to talk. Now.”
“What?” She sits up, groggy. “Did you get the car? Is it fixed?”
“Come up to my room.”
“Mom and Dad aren’t back yet. We can talk here.”
“No,” I say, insistent. “My room. Now.”
Once I finish telling her everything, she sits cross-legged on my bed, her eyes wide. “Christ,” she murmurs. “What are you going to do, Liz?”
“I don’t know. What choice do I have? I’m going to pay him.”
“And you’re going to do … whatever else he wants?”
I don’t say anything.
“What about Richie?” she prompts. “If you do anything with Vince, that’ll be like cheating on him.”
I cringe at the word “cheating.” “It won’t be like that. I don’t have a choice. Josie … you were in the car, too.” I close my eyes for a minute. “It doesn’t seem fair.”
She takes a deep breath. She nods. “I guess it’s not. But Liz … you were driving.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s not fair, Josie. You were the one who didn’t want to call for help.”
Josie shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. He would have died anyway.”
“Maybe.” I pause. “But I still can’t stop thinking about it. I’d do anything to take it back.”
“But you can’t take it back. It happened, and now you have to do this, or else we’re both in deep shit. Just—just go over there tomorrow and give him the money, and that will be the end of it. Okay? Then we can put it all behind us.”
I stare at her. “What about Alex? What about his family? They aren’t going to put it behind them. Josie, we ruined their lives. We killed him.”
She bites her lip. She’s quiet for a long time. Finally, she says, “Liz, we didn’t kill him. You did. All I did was get into the car with you.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, beginning to cry again. “I’m sorry I got you into this mess, I’m sorry about Alex … maybe I should just go to the cops, you know? Maybe I should turn myself in. I don’t know if I can do this, Josie. I don’t think I can do what Vince wants. I don’t know what he expects, but whatever it is—”
“No! You have to do what he wants. Liz, just get it over with.” She reaches toward me, strokes my blond locks with her small hand. One of her fingernails catches in my hair, and I wince as she tugs it free. “You have to do it, Liz. You can’t tell anyone what happened. Nobody. Not the police, not Richie, nobody. Understand?”
I nod.
“We would be in so much trouble. It would ruin our lives, too, and what’s the point in that?” She’s almost breathless. “I’m looking out for you,” she says. “I’m your best friend.” Josie smiles weakly. “We’re sisters. I promise, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I won’t let it. This will all be over soon.”
Twenty-four
The news of Vince’s arrest—for blackmail, extortion, and sexual exploitation of a minor—spreads almost instantaneously. It is on the morning news. I see it at Richie’s house, where he and his parents watch in amazement, all three of them silent and stunned as they stare at the television.
“That poor boy’s family,” Mrs. Wilson says. She’s talking about Alex.
Mr. Wilson is putting on his coat. On the news, there’s no mention of anything specific about the night Alex was killed—like the fact that I wasn’t alone. And, at least according to the morning anchor, my death is still accidental. It was a terrible end to a horrible tragedy that stretched over the course of an entire year.
“I assumed Liz had some issues with food,” Mrs. Wilson says. “I guess I just thought, with her mother’s history …”
“It made sense.” Mr. Wilson is ready to head out the door. “She was wasting away.” He tugs at his wife’s elbow. “Now we know, don’t we? See what a guilty conscience can do to you?” he says to Richie. Richie doesn’t nod. He doesn’t move. He just stares at the television. In his head, I can tell, the pieces are all falling together. Just like they’ve been coming together for me all night, ever since I watched Joe Wright take Vince Aiello off to jail.
“Your father and I are going into the city. Just for the morning,” Mrs. Wilson says. She peers at her son. “Richard? Are you okay?”
He nods slowly.
“Say something,” she demands.
He clears his throat. “I’m okay. I mean … yeah. I’m just shocked, that’s all.”
“I know. It’s horrible.” She shudders. “But the Valchars are moving away now. That’s good. So. Your father and I will be home later today, and there’s grocery money for you in the kitchen. Will you be all right by yourself?”
Richie nods again.
In a gentler tone, Mrs. Wilson says, “Please call if you need anything. We’re only a phone call away. We love you.” She musses his hair. I close my eyes, imagining how it feels to run my fingers through those curls.
“And whatever you do,” Mrs. Wilson says as she and her husband are heading out the door, “do not go over to the Valchar house. You are not to see Josie under any circumstances. Do you understand me?”
Richie doesn’t say anything.
“Richard. I want an answer from you.”
“Yes, Mom. I understand.”
He waits until his parents have pulled out of their driveway. He watches from the window as their car makes a left off of High Street. Then he walks right out the front door, down the sidewalk, and straight to my old house.
Josie is sitting among boxes. The television is off. It’s a Saturday, so there’s no school, and I can only imagine how my classmates will
be buzzing on Monday morning. I wonder if they’ll rescind my homecoming crown. The notion makes me think of Alex, of our dance together, and our time onstage. In spite of everything, I smile. They can take the crown. I never deserved it in the first place.
Richie walks in without knocking. Josie is home alone. My father is at the boat, of course, and Nicole is nowhere to be found.
He stands in the doorway to the living room. Josie is sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, looking through an old photo album.
“Did you hear the news?” Richie asks.
“No news in this house. I’m cut off from the world. We’ve got no Internet, and Dad canceled my cell plan. Cable’s off, too. Why?”
“They arrested Vince Aiello for blackmail. A bunch of other stuff, too. They know Liz is the one who hit Alex Berg.”
I can actually see the color fading as it drains from Josie’s face. “What?” she asks, her voice laced with a hint of panic.
“Yeah.” Richie nods. “It’s all over the news. The cops are probably talking to all our friends right now. Josie,” he says, “that was the night you two drove home from Caroline’s, wasn’t it? I remember it happening. It was just a few days later when Liz came to me about her car. The cops are going to figure it out, Josie. They’re going to find out you were in the car with her that night. You’re going to be in some kind of trouble.”
Josie puts her head down. Her hands clench the corners of the photo album. “I wasn’t driving, though,” she says. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You knew what happened and you didn’t tell anyone. It’s a crime.”
“I was a minor,” she protests. “I still am a minor. What are they going to do, throw me in prison? I didn’t know how to fix things. What was I supposed to do, Richie? Turn in my own sister? It was horrible enough when—” She stops. She shuts her mouth.
“When what?” Richie takes a step into the room.
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