by Elka Ray
Something cracks. Pain explodes up my arm. I curl up, my wrist clutched to my chest.
I expect Lukas to apologize, to try to help. Instead, he glares at me, wild-eyed. “You have no idea,” he snarls. “How much rehab sucked! All those people kept talking at me!” His voice rises in pitch. “They wouldn’t shut up! There were so many rules! I went and hid in the cabin!”
Bags abandoned, Grace tries to grab Lukas’s arm. “Lukas, no,” she begs. He shrugs her off and takes another step toward me.
“Lukas! Stop!” commands his mother.
Their pleas have no effect. It’s like he’s on angry auto-pilot, intent on telling his story. “That asshole thought I was a squatter!” he growls. “He threatened to call the cops on me! He called me a druggie loser! Who the hell did he think he was? He came at me—”
Daphne leaps toward her son, screaming: “Lukas! Be quiet!” There’s a sharp thwack as her palm connects with his cheek. His head hinges back. He clutches his cheek and staggers.
“Owwww.” He blinks at his mom. His next words are more whiney than angry: “Moooom, you hit me!”
When Lukas moves his hand, I see a smear of blood on his cheek. It’s starting to swell around an angry, gouged cut.
I look from Lukas to Daphne. Two red dots have appeared under her blush, high on her perfect cheekbones. Her mouth opens and shuts, quietly, like a goldfish’s. She falls into a chair. Her teeth clack.
For a moment, Daphne sits slumped, but then she straightens. “I did it,” she says, her back ramrod straight. “I admit it. I killed Stephen.”
I don’t bother to answer. We all know she’s lying.
Grace shakes her head. She unbuttons her coat. “No, no, no,” she cries, like a disappointed babysitter who’s caught the kids pulling each other’s hair. “Both of you, stop it!” Her dismayed gaze swings from Daphne to Lukas. “You’re both being silly!”
I have climbed to my feet, my broken wrist cupped to my chest.
At the sight of my hand, which is purpling fast, Grace’s eyes pop. “Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear. You’ve hurt your hand. It looks dreadful.”
Lukas’s eyes swing my way too. He frowns.
I take a step backward.
Lukas pouts. “It wasn’t my fault!” His voice rises. I keep quiet. “Listen,” he hisses. “This is your doing! If you hadn’t . . . Hey!” He reaches out to grab me. “Listen!”
I don’t stick around to hear what’s coming next. For all I know, he’ll attack me again, just to prove it was my fault the first time. People like Lukas are never to blame. They’re always the victims. I made him hit me. Stephen made him kill him.
I back away, using my good hand to protect my throbbing wrist.
Lukas steps closer.
I turn and dash past him.
Both Grace and Daphne have started to yell. They’re calling for Lukas to stop and for me to come back. My head swims. I ignore them.
I slide into the hall and fling open the front door. I sprint through the front yard and out the gate, which bangs shut behind me. The street lies silent and empty.
My car. Thank god. I scurry toward it.
My good hand is on the door when it hits me: my purse is on Daphne’s couch. My keys and phone are in it.
I look back, petrified I’ll see Lukas, lurching through the gate. He looked crazy. Will he chase me? I recall the fury in his red-rimmed eyes. He wanted to hurt me.
I need to get out of here.
I turn left in the empty street. My footsteps ring loud against the pavement.
Legs pumping, I don’t dare look back. Are those footsteps behind me or just echoes? Is that a car engine, starting up? I have tunnel vision. Everything is a dark blur. Panic drives me faster.
spin into Colin’s street. There’s a stitch in my side. With each step, pain jolts up my arm, into my shoulder.
I pound up the long sloped drive, then up the staircase. I peer at the grid of buzzers. Names swim in tiny font. Finally, his name floats free: C.M. Destin.
Using my left hand, I stab at the button.
I know who killed Stephen. I need the police to take over.
Please let Colin answer. Or Miri. Right now, I don’t care. I don’t need a boyfriend. I need a police officer—someone to arrest crazy Lukas.
The buzzer sounds. I can barely talk: “Please help,” I croak. “It’s me, Toby.”
CHAPTER 29:
SEEING DOUBLE
I tug at the door. The lobby is bright. It has white-painted walls and white cement tiles. I run past some rows of metal letter boxes. A white door marked STAIRS lies to my right. To my left, two tall plants flank an elevator.
I hesitate. Loud footsteps pummel down the stairs.
“Toby?” Colin’s anxious voice echoes downward. I turn toward it.
I’m halfway to the second floor when I see him, careening down the stairs toward me. Seeing me, he stops dead. I stop too. My chest heaves.
He is holding a baby—maybe seven or eight months old. It’s asleep, and wrapped in a blue blanket. In the fluorescent lights Colin looks duck-egg green. His eyes are ringed like a panda’s. I wonder if he’s ill.
He gapes. I guess I don’t look my best either. “My god,” he says. “Toby! What happened?”
I’m wheezing too hard to answer. Another step is impossible. My knees buckle, like a badly made jumping-jack. The sight of him has pulled the pins from my legs. I collapse onto a step and hang my head between my knees. My lungs feel empty, despite my heaving gasps. I feel dizzy.
Colin descends toward me.
“Your wrist!” he says. He moves the baby into one arm and crouches down. His hand finds my back. “Is it broken?”
“I don’t know.” My breath scrapes my throat. “Lukas killed Stephen!” Between gasps, I explain about Lukas’s confession, and how he attacked me at his mom’s place. “He’s dangerous,” I croak. “You have to stop him.”
Colin helps me up the stairs. “This way.” He guides me through a partly opened door. His apartment smells weird: like camphor and baby oil. “Come sit down,” he says. His hand is on my back. “I need to call for assistance.”
He leads me into the front living room, which is dominated by that broad picture window. For a second, I see it from outside, as I did a few nights ago: Colin’s strong arms around Miriam. My heart, still straining, plummets.
We aim for a big dark green sofa. I sink down, then jump up. Something poked me in the butt! Between two sofa cushions rests a spiky plastic dinosaur. A half dozen small dinosaurs roar silently from the coffee table. Do they belong to the baby?
I dig Buttpokersaurus out of the sofa and set it beside its buddies. My legs shake. I’m still panting. It’s a relief to sink down onto the sofa.
Colin finds his phone. He paces as he talks, still holding the baby. Again, I’m struck by how tired Colin looks. He’s paler and thinner than when we last met. Is something wrong? I recall how his mom had breast cancer, like mine. I hope she’s not sick again. And whose kid is that? The baby remains sound asleep in his arms.
As Colin explains, I survey the room. His place is messy, clothes, towels, and bags strewn around. I see a woman’s pink sports sock near the radiator. My throat closes a little. Does Miriam live here? Is it her baby?
“Toby?” says Colin. “What’s Daphne’s address?”
I struggle to remember. It’s hard to think through the pain in my arm.
The baby in his arms stirs. I think it’s a boy. He has tawny skin and a shock of pale brown hair. Again, I wonder who he belongs to.
Colin hangs up the phone and walks closer. He looks contrite. “Tob, I need to go,” he says. He gazes down at the infant in his arms. “D’you mind taking care of—”
He is interrupted by a loud squall, which erupts from down the hall. Colin’s face plummets. I stare at the baby he’s holding, like it’s a ventriloquist.
“Oh no,” groans Colin. His tired face sags. “As soon as one goes to sleep the other wakes up. Can y
ou . . .”
Before I can respond, he thrusts the baby into my lap. The baby frowns in its sleep, then settles. While my baby-know-how is slightly higher than it was a few months ago, thanks to Quinn and Abby, I hold it the way I’d hold a pipe bomb. What if it starts shrieking?
“Colin! Wait!” I say, but he’s already speed-walking toward the wails. Jeez. I thought Abby was loud.
Moments later he’s back with another baby—so similar to the first one I do a double-take. Same rosebud mouths. Same pudgy cheeks. Except they’re like Baby Jekyll and Hyde—mine sweetly asleep, his apoplectic.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “But can you watch this one too?”
I blink at him, incredulous. I’m in shock and in pain, with one working hand! I’ve been assaulted. I need an X-ray! How am I supposed to mind two babies?
“Only for a minute,” says Colin, quickly. His baby bucks and writhes, its face like a maraschino cherry. Any second now, its head will start to spin, Poltergeist style. “Help is on its way.” His voice shakes. “I swear! Someone will stay here with them.” He nods at the infants. “And someone will take you to Emergency. I have to run to the Danes.”
He shoves the second baby into my lap. It head-butts my chest. “Please, Tob,” says Colin. “It’s urgent.”
I’m saved from having to reply by the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Detective?” comes a man’s voice. A uniformed officer peeks around Colin’s door, then another. Not a moment too soon. The promised help. Two strong-looking men stride closer.
“Thank god,” says Colin. He turns back to me. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”
I watch as he races away. Is he going to arrest Lukas?
Roused by its twin’s screams and kicks, the first baby wriggles. It opens its eyes, sees me, and frowns. Its face scrunches up like a troll’s and turns red. It takes a giant breath and starts screaming.
The approaching policemen look alarmed. “Are you okay, Miss?” asks the closest one. At least I think that’s what he said. It’s impossible to hear over the babies’ shrieking.
“I’m fine,” I yell, through gritted teeth. “Just please . . .” I nod at my lap. “Take them!”
I’d rather face Round Two with Lukas Dane than try my luck with these demon babies.
CHAPTER 30:
ALONE
The nurse taps my cast. “Almost dry,” she says. “Can I just check your name?” I hold out my good hand so she can compare the name on my wristband to the name on the forms she’s holding. She nods. “Okay. Can you sign here, please?”
I hold the pen awkwardly in my left hand. My signature looks like it was written by a three-year-old. Six weeks in a cast won’t make life easier at work.
The nurse glances at the clock. “Another fifteen minutes and you should be good to go,” she says, smiling.
I consider calling my mom for a ride but decide to take a cab. The policewoman who dropped off my purse refused to say anything about the Danes. Should I go back to Daphne’s and retrieve my car? But no, I’m too tired. Plus they gave me painkillers. I shouldn’t drive. It’d be better to go home and get my mom or Quinn to drive me over there in the morning.
I’m gathering my things when my phone rings. Colin’s name makes my heart jolt, then flatline. This call is surely professional, not romantic. While the cop who brought me here questioned me, Colin will need to follow up. “Hello?” I say, tiredly.
“Toby? Are you okay?” He sounds tired, too. And anxious.
“I’m fine,” I say. “You?”
“I heard your wrist is broken.”
“Fractured,” I say. “Did you get Lukas?”
He sighs. “He got away. We’re looking for him now.”
I reach for a wall to steady myself. The thought that Lukas is still out there gives me a weird, shaky feeling. I recall his crazed, menacing stare, the way he’d kept coming closer . . .
“Toby?” says Colin.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find him.” He sighs again. He sounds utterly spent. “There’s one more thing . . .” I wait, my shoulders tense. “Daphne confessed to the murder. Thanks to Jackie, she’s already made bail.”
I shake my head. “Daphne’s lying,” I say. “To protect her son.”
“I . . . Hold on.” There’s some noise on the line, like someone else is talking to him. “Sorry, I have to go,” he says. He sounds both frustrated and apologetic. “I need to question Mrs. Dane. I’ll call you tomorrow. Is someone there with you?”
I hesitate. Admitting I’m alone sounds too pathetic. It feels shameful.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I’m about to go home.”
“You have a ride?”
I bite my lip. “Yes.”
“Oh, okay.”
I can’t tell if he sounds relieved or disappointed. Does he think Josh is here, my knight in shining, solid gold armor? Or is he just happy I’m someone else’s problem, so he doesn’t have to feel guilty?
“Well then . . .” He clears his throat. “Please, take care of yourself, Toby.” He sounds suddenly formal.
“You too,” I say.
It’s only after I’ve hung up that I realize I never even asked about the mysterious twins. Whose are they? But I’m too tired to dwell on it. All I want is my own bed. I stash my phone in my bag and stand up.
With aching muscles, I shuffle out of Emergency.
There are no taxis in sight. I sigh. Should I call one? I ran out of Daphne’s without my coat. The wind cuts right through my wool sweater. Waiting around, I’ll surely freeze to death. And by the time a cab shows up, it’d be quicker to walk.
I adjust my grip on my bag and set off through the dark parking lot.
With each step, my legs protest. Even though it’s a busy street, and well lit, I feel anxious. My arm throbs. My entire body feels leaden. But my mind is buzzing. Lukas Dane is a killer. And he’s still out there. Are the cops really looking for him? Or do they believe his mom did it? I’m sure Daphne and Grace denied everything I said. I can’t help but feel bitter. They’d both do anything to protect their darling boy, Lukas.
When the streets get quieter and emptier, my unease grows. I keep seeing the loathing in Lukas’s bright eyes, like laser beams, pointed straight at me. I won’t feel safe until he’s behind bars. I really need Colin to believe me.
It starts to drizzle. My fractured wrist throbs and my tired legs shake. I wish I had called my mother, although it seems pathetic, needing her rescue at my age. Maybe it’s delayed shock, or relief, or just fatigue, but all of a sudden, I’m crying. How pathetic is that? All I do these days is bawl! I’m worse than baby Abby.
Shoulders hunched, I swipe at my eyes. I need to get it together. I’m not a baby. Or a hormonal teenager. I’m thirty-three and a half. An age when most people have their own families. They have real responsibilities, beyond remembering to feed their fish. A mortgage. In-laws. Immunizations. PTA meetings. And at times like this, they have people to call on—a family circle, whereas who do I have? My mom. But she’s got problems of her own. And she’s getting on. I shouldn’t be adding to her stresses. Of course Quinn would come if I called, but I can’t—not when she’s barely coping with the baby. I could have called Quinn’s mom, Jackie. I know she’d come in a heartbeat. She’d be furious if she knew I was out here by myself, late at night, staggering homeward. Quinn’s cop husband Bruce would be equally livid.
But I’d feel embarrassed to call them, ashamed to need help. Like I was mortified to tell Colin the truth, to say: No, I don’t have a ride home. No. Nobody’s here with me. Yes, I’m alone at the hospital.
A lump balloons in my throat and fills my chest. Alone. This word hurts worse than my wrist, worse than the ache in my muscles. After tonight, all I want is to be held, to be comforted. I want someone to be relieved I’m okay, to tell me I matter. Would Josh come, if I called him?
This thought drags my feet to a stop. Would I want him here? My tummy
tilts. Warmth surges up and down my spine. Josh is like a drug—a shot of confidence and glamor. When I touch him I get high. Ordinary moments crackle with possibility. But the comedown . . .
I pull my hands up inside my sleeves and start to walk again. Those highs are followed by such lows. The second-guessing myself. The feeling not good enough, not pretty enough, not exciting enough . . . To live that way would be exhausting.
I start to walk again, my steps robotic. Josh would come if I called. I know he would. He wants me back. But I wouldn’t trust his reasons for coming. He likes to win. I’m not a prize in a carnival game.
In the bottom of my purse is a wadded-up tissue. I stop and blow my nose. I’m not calling Josh. Decision made, my steps feel a bit lighter.
And Colin? My heart twists. I imagine phoning him back. I could tell him the truth. I’m alone. I’m scared and tired. Please come get me.
Again, my steps slow. The phone in my jeans’ back pocket seems to grow heavy. My fingers find it. My whole being yearns to dial his number. But I can’t. I picture his living room: the stray pink sock. He’s with Miriam. Those must be her twins. An instant family. My throat constricts. Fresh tears fill my tired eyes.
There are no sounds but for the light patter of rain, my sniffling, and my soft footfalls against the asphalt. Up ahead, three streetlights in a row have gone out. It’s very dark.
I hesitate, but keep walking. This is a safe neighborhood. I have nothing to fear. There’s no way Lukas could know where I am. I’m just exhausted and jumpy.
In the dark, quiet street, I keep peering behind me. All lies silent: dark houses, dark bushes and trees, dark lawns, dark cars, dark sidewalks . . . My heart thumps in my chest. I long to call Colin. But I can’t. He’s not my boyfriend. He’ll never be my boyfriend. I missed my chance. What a loser.
It’s a relief to turn into my street, to see my building up ahead with its lit golden porch-light. The fake Christmas tree’s multicolored lights blink on and off in the lobby. The effect is more cautionary than festive.
I look up. All the apartments lie dark. Even nosy old Mrs. Daggett must be in bed, her usual post abandoned. In my sorry state, I almost miss her.
