Amid the debris on top of Molly’s dresser, Sheila noticed several mini shampoo bottles and soaps from a Best Western hotel. She knew her sister was often out half the night with old boyfriends, but she didn’t know Molly was bringing home souvenirs from her various sexcapades.
Again, Sheila tried hard to swallow her anger. In Molly’s closet, she found a loose top and some jeans she could button halfway up over her ever-expanding baby bump. She phoned Dylan to say she’d be home late, and then she ordered dinner for her mother, Manuela, and herself. Molly showed up while they were eating. She’d been out shopping for clothes and had stopped by the store for a pint of their mom’s favorite Ben & Jerry’s flavor. There was something in the way she announced this—as if she expected kudos for bringing their sick mother some ice cream, like this was her big contribution to the caregiving arrangement.
Sheila was furious, but she patiently tried to explain to her sister what had happened. Molly claimed to have misunderstood Manuela about when she was picking up their mother’s prescription. “I thought she was doing that tomorrow,” Molly whispered. “Y’know, it would help if you hired some nurses who actually spoke English.”
Sheila turned away from her sister and resolved not to say anything in the heat of anger. She avoided Molly for the next half an hour. She washed the dishes, took her clothes out of the dryer, and got dressed. When she was ready to leave, her mother and Manuela were on opposite ends of the sofa, watching Friends. She kissed her mother good-bye, then realized Molly was nowhere to be seen. “Do you know where my sister is?” she asked the nurse.
Putting down her knitting, Manuela pantomimed smoking a cigarette and then pointed upward. It was supposed to be a big secret that Molly often went up to the roof to smoke. “Well, say good night to her for me,” Sheila sighed. “Thanks, Manuela.”
In the corridor, as she pressed the button for the elevator, Sheila was so depressed, tired, and angry, she just wanted to cry. The elevator door opened, and one of the two people aboard stepped out. Sheila headed into the elevator and automatically pressed the lobby button.
“We’re going up,” announced the middle-aged man already in the elevator—just as the doors shut behind her.
“This is how my day’s been going,” Sheila tried to joke, but her voice was cracking.
As the man got off on twelve, Sheila impulsively pressed the button for the top floor. She needed to have it out with her sister. She was tired of venting to Dylan, who was damn tired of it, too.
There was no one in the exercise room or on the track. For a few minutes, Sheila wondered if there really was a communication gap between Manuela and Molly, because it didn’t look like her sister was up here. Wandering around the track, Sheila called out her sister’s name.
“What is it?” Molly yelled back.
Sheila spotted her with a cigarette between her fingers, coming toward her from the other side of the track’s railing by some huge air-conditioning vents. The area didn’t have any guardrail. The sun was just beginning to set, and the sky behind Molly was a blazing red. Sheila could hear a car horn from the street seventeen stories below.
“Molly, are you crazy?” Sheila cried. “What are you doing out there?”
“Oh, there’s this narc in the building who gave me all sorts of shit for smoking up here, so I hide over there now.” She nodded toward the vents and puffed on her cigarette. “What’s with the look? Are you still pissed? I told you, it was all just a misunderstanding.”
Shaking her head, Sheila clutched the top of the railing. “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “I’m sick, literally nauseated all the time. What in the world made me think that you’d actually surprise me and help out a little bit here? You’ve only made things worse. You don’t care about anybody but yourself. I have nurses threatening to quit because of you. I’m doing more work than ever. I’m so stressed out. I swear, if something happens to this baby, I’m going to hold you partially responsible.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic.” Molly dropped her cigarette and stepped on it.
“Mom could have died tonight!” Sheila screamed. “She could have hit her head on the side of the toilet or the tub. You didn’t see the bruise on her hip! You didn’t see our mother crying and covered in shit because of your negligence. Outside of buying Mom ice cream once in a while—with her money—have you done anything to help? Have you spent any time with her exercising? Have you ever helped her to the toilet or bathed her?”
“That’s what the nurses are for!” Molly cried.
“When are you going to grow up?” Sheila asked. “You’re still this thoughtless, stupid, selfish, spoiled child. And I can’t deal with you anymore. I can’t take care of you anymore. I’m trying to look after our mother. I’m trying to take care of myself for my baby—and I’m doing a terrible job of it. I’m neglecting my husband. I thought you might rise to the occasion and chip in a little. But you’re worse than useless, Molly.”
Her pretty blond kid sister stood there on the side of the railing. She had tears in her eyes, and her lip quivered. “Well, I guess as far as you’re concerned, I’m still just a fuckup.”
Sheila nodded. “Yes, I guess you are.”
She remembered all the times she’d yelled at Molly, made her cry, then hugged her and apologized. But she couldn’t do that now. She backed away and shook her head. “You’ll have to move out. Come up with some other kind of living arrangement,” she said calmly. “I won’t do this anymore.”
She could hear her sister crying as she turned away. Molly called out to her in a broken voice, but Sheila kept walking.
She hardly ever allowed herself to look back on that night. She kept thinking about what the priest friend of her mother had told her about pretending it all never happened—“forget and forgive.” Better to blot out all memories of her little sister and move on.
But Sheila was back in Portland for the first time in seventeen years. And she was sitting in a rental car, staring at a spot where another woman had plunged to her death. So she couldn’t help thinking about Molly—and crying for her. That stupid priest’s advice had never been any good. She’d never completely forgotten nor forgiven her sweet, stupid screw-up of a sister.
Sheila wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting in the car, weeping, when the ringing of her phone jarred her out of it. She checked the Caller ID: PORTLAND HILTON. She clicked to answer and cleared her throat. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Sheila?”
“Speaking.” She cleared her throat again and quickly wiped her eyes.
“This is Debra Barnes. You called me earlier about Toni Newcomb. I noticed on my phone your last name is O’Rourke. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Dylan’s wife?”
“Yes,” Sheila answered. “We have Eden staying with us now.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Hello?” Sheila said.
“I was just thinking,” Antonia’s friend said. “I wasn’t sure if I should give my congratulations or condolences. You mentioned in your message that you had some questions about Toni and Eden—and that it was urgent.”
This woman sounded like she knew Antonia pretty well. At least, she seemed knowledgeable about the situation. She knew who Dylan was. “Well, it’s urgent in the sense that I’m in Portland right now, and I was hoping we could talk,” Sheila said into the phone. She glanced over her shoulder at the boxes on the back seat. “I have some old photographs of Antonia’s. Maybe you could go over them with me, fill me in on some things. You might even want to keep some of the pictures.”
“Well, that sounds too good to resist,” she said drolly. “Plus, I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I had no interest in meeting you, Mrs. O’Rourke. I’m at work right now, and things are a little slow at the moment. How soon do you think you could get here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Saturday—2:51 P.M.
Seattle
S
teve hid behind the hedges that circled one of the koi ponds in Volunteer Park. He knew he must have looked slightly suspicious, because he was the only one by the pond with his back to the fish. The pond had a twin to the north, just on the other side of the sculpture everyone called the “Doughnut.” The name of the modern art piece was actually Black Sun, but the nine-foot-tall granite sculpture was undeniably doughnut-shaped. It sat on a long, rectangular pedestal with the park’s reservoir to the west and the Asian Art Museum to the east.
From that spot, people had a breathtaking view of the Space Needle, Elliott Bay, and the Olympic Mountains. So the Doughnut was a popular meeting place. There were always people sitting on the stone pedestal and the park benches facing it. If Eden was meeting someone in Volunteer Park, Steve figured she’d rendezvous with them right there.
He’d gotten off the bus only two blocks after Eden had made her impulsive departure. On the hunch she was headed for the park, he’d practically run there to catch up with her. But the park was huge—over forty-eight acres, which included a conservatory, an old brick water tower with an observation deck, the art museum, several meadows and gardens, a playground, and a wading pool. Steve went over each area twice. He even checked out Lake View Cemetery, which neighbored the park, thinking it might appeal to Eden’s Goth side. But the sprawling memorial park also had over forty acres, plus forty thousand graves. He couldn’t hope to cover the whole area. He thought Eden might have gone to the graves of Bruce and Brandon Lee, which were a tourist attraction. He remembered where the headstones were and found a group of solemn admirers, but Eden wasn’t among them. Still, the Lees’ gravesite was near the top of a hill, and from there Steve had a sweeping view of the cemetery. He didn’t see Eden anywhere.
He’d been searching for his elusive half sister for nearly two hours. He was hungry and tired, but he refused to give up. He walked back to Volunteer Park and paid for admission into the Asian Art Museum. It was a huge place, with several exhibit rooms full of paintings, sculptures, tapestries, pottery, and metalwork. But Steve zipped through the museum in about fifteen minutes. He wasn’t looking at the art but at the people milling around the art. And Eden wasn’t among them.
His feet dragging, Steve headed down the steps of the art museum. He was ready to give up. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find anyway. He’d just started to warm up to Eden, and he thought she had started to like him, too. And she’d seemed to be warming up to the family. But then she’d suddenly ditched him on the bus. So he couldn’t help but think she must be up to something underhanded.
Gazing at the Doughnut across the way, Steve heard his stomach rumble. He was thinking that he’d kill for some fries and a Coke.
And that was when he spotted Eden, sitting on the sculpture’s pedestal with some guy. At first, Steve thought it wasn’t the boyfriend. Instead of the camo jacket, this guy wore a beat-up black leather jacket. Plus, his hair was short and a dull blackish color.
The couple seemed deep in conversation. Steve was pretty sure they weren’t looking his way, but he took off his own jacket, which Eden had seen him wearing today. Tucking it under his arm, he tried to blend in with a couple walking south toward the big water tower. Once they passed the Doughnut’s pedestal, Steve broke away from the couple and ducked behind the bushes encircling the koi pond.
Now Steve stood there, hiding behind the hedges for a closer look at their faces. The guy with Eden was the same creep in the photo his mom had taken. He had merely cut off most of his hair and dyed it black. It was weird how neither one of them looked like the punk kids in the photo anymore. But while Eden was prettier, the boyfriend only looked creepier.
They seemed to be arguing about something. Eden had this miserable, defeated expression on her face. The guy kept talking and stabbing his finger in the air at her. He put his hand on her arm, and she pulled away. Steve wished he knew what they were saying.
Eden got a phone call and took it. The boyfriend started tapping his foot impatiently, and then he glanced around. For a moment, he seemed to look directly toward the koi pond area—and at him.
Steve swiveled around and pretended to be interested in the carp swimming around the slightly murky water. After a few moments, he dared to glance over his shoulder and noticed Eden was off the phone.
Brodie was talking to her again, and she reluctantly nodded. He leaned in toward her like he was going to kiss her, but Eden suddenly got to her feet. Frowning, he stood up, too. The two of them headed south toward Steve. He ducked down behind the hedge and pretended to tie his shoe.
As they passed by the other side of the hedge, Steve could hear Eden: “. . . don’t care what you say, I hate this. I don’t want to be part of it anymore. You can . . .”
Her voice faded as the two passed Steve’s hiding spot without stopping.
Steve slowly straightened up and peered over the hedge. Their backs were to him as they climbed inside a black Mini Cooper parked across from the water tower. Steve took a chance and sprinted across the street to the steps leading up to the old brick tower. From the tower’s observatory, he might be able to see which way they were headed.
He ducked into the water tower’s entrance and ran up the grated steel stairs. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell. He’d heard there were 107 steps to the top, and somehow that number had stuck in his head. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Steve’s lungs were burning. About a dozen or so people were up there, gazing out the tall windows. Past the bars and grating, the series of windows offered a 360-degree view of Seattle. A few of the sightseers gaped at Steve as he staggered out of the stairwell into the covered observatory and then to the closest window. His head was spinning, and he wasn’t sure which window overlooked the area where the Mini Cooper had been parked.
The first window offered a view of the cemetery to the north and the University District beyond that. His house in Roanoke Park was in that direction. Through the treetops, he looked for the Mini Cooper on the main drive through the park. He didn’t see it.
He moved from window to window in search of the car. At the fifth window, he finally spotted the Mini Cooper, headed down a side street that led to the Broadway shopping district. Was the boyfriend taking her back to the bus stop where she’d gotten off earlier? It would make sense that they didn’t want to be seen driving around together anywhere near his house, not when the creep was supposed to be in Portland. Even if he’d changed his looks, he was still recognizable.
Steve lost sight of them through the treetops after about three blocks. Still winded, he backed away from the window and plopped down on a bench. He was sweating and his heart beat furiously. As he caught his breath, Steve tried to figure out what he should do.
If he asked Eden for an explanation, she’d just lie to him again. His mother was still pretty upset about her garden getting trashed. Steve didn’t want to make matters worse by telling her about this. He decided he’d talk to his dad. After all, Eden was his daughter, wasn’t she?
His phone rang. He had his wadded-up jacket in his lap, and it took him a few moments to find which pocket his phone was in. He checked the Caller ID: SEAN THOMAS. Steve frowned at the screen before answering. His school friend rarely called.
“Hey,” Steve said.
“Hey, have you heard the news?” Sean asked. “Ms. Warren was murdered last night. Somebody shot her in her house. A neighbor found her body early this morning. Can you believe it?”
*
The neighbor’s dog wouldn’t shut up.
All the barking certainly didn’t help Dylan’s bad mood any.
After talking with Brooke, he’d hurried home and showered. Then, thinking optimistically, he’d booked a room for them at the downtown W Seattle Hotel. He’d put the reservation on his business American Express and made a mental note to swing by the bank so he would have enough money to pay in cash when he checked out. It seemed kind of sleazy, but he didn’t want any Seattle hotel charges showing up on his credit card bill.
>
He’d changed his clothes twice before settling on a relaxed, casual look: an Italian wool V-neck sweater, white T-shirt, and khakis. Then he’d waited for Brooke’s call. And waited. She’d told him that if she could get away, she would call within forty-five minutes. Over an hour had passed, and he’d still waited and hoped. Then two hours had gone by.
Instead of room service at the W with the woman he worshipped, he’d had Campbell’s chicken noodle soup for lunch with CNN on the TV in the kitchen. All the while, the neighbor’s dog had serenaded him with its sporadic yowling.
He’d managed to cancel his reservation at the W without having any charges on his card. Now he was washing the dishes, trying to resist the urge to break something. It was obvious Brooke hadn’t been able to get away, and now she was stuck on some cruise for the rest of the afternoon.
Dylan told himself that he should hit the gym—maybe work out some of his frustration and disappointment. It wasn’t just thwarted expectations about the afternoon with Brooke that bothered him. For a while, he’d been able to put his worries aside while fantasizing about a few stolen hours with her at the W. But now he began to brood once again about the bizarre anonymous phone call to Brooke in the middle of the night. If Sheila hadn’t gone out at four in the morning and made the call from a pay phone, then who had? Was it the same person who’d sent the text to Steve about Molly? The same person who had texted Sheila the article about Antonia’s death?
The two texts seemed like they were related. Maybe they’d come from a friend of Antonia’s who knew about Molly, someone trying to screw with him and his family. But that didn’t explain the woman who was following Brooke or the disturbing phone call she’d received. How could some friend of Antonia’s know about Brooke and him? Maybe Brooke was right about the call being a fluke. And it wasn’t totally unthinkable that she’d feel some guilt and paranoia over getting involved with him. She wasn’t the first woman he’d been with who thought she was being watched or followed. It kind of came with the territory when the sex was illicit. In a weird way, that was part of the thrill.
The Betrayed Wife Page 28
