In Her Eyes

by Sarah Alderson

  ‘Sell whatever you can,’ I say, sighing and gesturing at the house. ‘Furniture, paintings, anything.’ I pull off the diamond eternity ring that Robert bought for me last year. ‘And this, take this. It’s worth at least twenty-five thousand.’

  Gene stares at the ring I place in his outstretched palm. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Oh please don’t let your conscience stop you now,’ I tell him. ‘I’m not doing this for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gene says. ‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.’

  He’s looking at me pleadingly but I can’t give him the absolution he’s asking for. ‘But it did.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying that. It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘I—’ He stops himself, his fisted hand punching his thigh.

  ‘The only thing you can do now is get the money and pay them.’

  He nods. ‘I will.’

  ‘And after you’ve paid your debt I want you to leave. I don’t ever want to see you again. You’re not welcome near this family, do you understand?’

  ‘Ava,’ he says. ‘Please. It’s my family too.’

  ‘Not any longer.’

  He doesn’t move for a few seconds, but then he slopes towards the door, pausing when he reaches it. ‘Don’t let them switch the life support off.’

  ‘She’s my daughter. I decide.’

  ‘She’s my sister,’ he answers quietly. And then he’s gone and I’m slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 38

  Lies. Lies. Lies.

  Laurie drives me to the hospital and I stay quiet the whole way, not telling her about Dave. I think about it – a couple of times it’s even on the tip of my tongue – but in the end, I stay silent. I can’t be the one to tell her. It should be him.

  I find Hannah in June’s room where I left her. Jonathan is there too and when I enter, the two of them spring apart like repelling magnets. Hannah looks like she’s been crying and Jonathan’s face is blotchy red, his Sheriff hat askew.

  ‘Mom,’ Hannah says, rushing over and hugging me like I’ve been gone years, not hours.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ she says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  She clings to me and I notice she’s trembling. I glance over her head at Jonathan, who gives me a quick smile and then hurries outside.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask Hannah.

  She nods. ‘Yes,’ she mumbles. She was upset, I guess, and he was comforting her. I keep forgetting that Hannah is going through this too. I’m so caught up in everything, I’m not being a good mother to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur into her hair. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she says, still clinging to me.

  I take her face in my palms and look at her, my first born, my love, older now than I was when I had her.

  ‘Is everything going to be OK?’ she asks.

  I nod, pulling her back into my arms so she can’t see the truth in my expression.

  A knock makes me turn. It’s the hospital administrator, along with Dr Warier and another doctor I recognize as the neurologist.

  ‘Mrs Walker,’ Dr Warier begins.

  I eye them all suspiciously. ‘Hannah,’ I say, ‘why don’t you step aside and give us a minute?’

  She makes to argue with me but I glare at her and she leaves.

  ‘What is it?’ I say to Dr Warier.

  ‘We wanted to talk to you about organ donation.’

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘At a time like this—’

  I cut him off. ‘I heard you. But we’re not discussing it, because you’re not switching off those machines.’

  The neurologist steps forwards. ‘I’m afraid that there’s an absence of motor responses and very high levels of enolase in June’s system. She is, in my opinion, brain dead.’

  ‘Your opinion,’ I say.

  The neurologist gives me a steely stare. ‘Yes, my opinion.’

  I turn to the clipboard-clutching administrator. ‘And that opinion is in no way biased by the fact the cost of keeping her on life support is now in the millions and the hospital is concerned about our ability to honor the bill?’

  ‘That’s completely ridiculous,’ the administrator splutters. ‘An outrageous suggestion.’

  I death-stare her until she shrivels like a flower cut down by a squirt of Round Up.

  Dr Warier steps forwards. ‘It’s been over a week,’ he says in an even tone, ‘and the chances of the patient recovering are much less than five per cent.’

  I nod. ‘Someone once gave June similar odds and she beat them, so next time you tell me my daughter’s life support needs switching off, I suggest you give me much worse odds than that.’

  The doctors glance between themselves and I can see them trying to weigh up what to do next and whose turn it is to speak. ‘And I want a second opinion. This time from an expert.’

  Once more the doctors confer silently – a whole language of alarmed looks and twitching eyebrows.

  ‘I don’t think—’ the administrator starts.

  ‘Well, I know that,’ I shoot back before she can finish. ‘But we’re asking for a second opinion and we’re going to get one, and until then you’ll care for my daughter as though she’s about to come out of her coma, not as though you’re about to harvest her for her organs. Do you understand me?’

  Nods all around.

  ‘Good. Because we’d hate to add another lawsuit to the one we’re already going to file against the hospital and the Sheriff’s department and the state for allowing someone to waltz in here and attempt to murder our daughter for a second time.’

  Eventually Dr Warier speaks up again, clearing his throat loudly. ‘We’ll leave you be.’

  I watch them troop out of the room then collapse down into the chair by June’s side, breathing fast and feeling faint. I take her hand.

  ‘Now prove me right,’ I say to her.

  Chapter 39

  DAY 9

  I head back home at dawn, leaving Hannah in the ICU. We’re taking it in shifts to watch over June. I don’t trust the Sheriffs to do the job properly and I also don’t trust the hospital.

  Gene has left. I know it before I even look in the apartment. There’s a desolation hanging in the air like it does at ancient ruins, a heavy cloying silence that shrouds the house.

  When I open the front door I notice that even more paintings have vanished – though this time I see with surprise that they’re all ones I painted. The antique candlesticks on the table are gone, and the silver cutlery my father gave me on our wedding day has been emptied from the drawers in the dining room, which all gape open. It’s as if burglars have been again.

  As I make my way through the rooms I note that Gene’s done a more thorough job than an estate sale. In the bare kitchen there’s an envelope sitting on the side with my name on it.

  Inside are my car keys and a check for fifteen thousand dollars from a gallery in town.

  Ava,

  I sold your paintings.

  Gene.

  I turn the note over but that’s all he’s written. Fifteen thousand dollars? Does this mean that Gene made more than he needed? He needed close to fifty thousand dollars though, how could those paintings have possibly made that much money? I have to sit down. My name is scattered all over the news, that’s probably why they paid that much. It lends cachet to have a painting by the mother of a dying girl and a murderous husband. I can’t imagine another reason. They’re not that good. Though art, like truth, is subjective, isn’t it?

  But still, it’s money, and I need money right now. This might even be enough to get the bank manager off my back. Or maybe I should be using it to hire a better lawyer for Robert. Horowitz is as useless as a paper condom. But fifteen thousand won’t buy a lawyer worth their salt and what would be the point anyway when we need to keep the truth hidden? In that respect Horowitz is a blessing in disguise, I supp
ose.

  I’m about to throw away the envelope when I notice something else inside it. I upturn the envelope over my palm and my ring tumbles out. Gene didn’t sell it. I turn it around and look at all the diamonds embedded in it – one for each year of our marriage – before I slide it back onto my finger.

  Eternity. Was that another lie?

  I trudge upstairs, limbs leaden, and pause in the doorway to June’s room. My gaze lands on the hamster cage. I still haven’t cleaned it, though George now lies buried beneath a rose bush in the back garden. I can’t put it off any longer, the room is starting to smell fusty and fetid and when she comes home, if there’s still this house to come home to, I don’t want the first thing she sees to be the hamster cage – reminding her that not only couldn’t I keep her safe, I couldn’t keep her pet hamster alive either.

  I grab the trash can from under the desk and kneel by the cage, tugging at the catch and removing the bottom in order to dispose of the clumps of matted sawdust. As I do, something catches my eye. A flat, square plastic container, the kind I use for storing cookies and leftovers, lies hidden beneath the sawdust. I pull it out, dust off the lid and then open it. Inside are a dozen stacks of shrink-wrapped cash.

  I rock back on my heels. ‘Oh, June,’ I whisper.

  Chapter 40

  ‘Ava?’

  Heart lurching, I swivel around so fast I almost overbalance. Nate stands in the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ I stammer.

  How long has he been standing there? He takes a step towards me and adrenaline pumps into my system. I nudge the container of money behind me with my foot, so it’s out of sight. But if he comes one step closer he’ll see it.

  He doesn’t though. He stops, thank God, in the middle of the room. ‘I went to the hospital but Hannah told me you were here,’ he says.

  I frown. ‘Oh,’ I say.

  It’s Nate’s turn to frown. ‘I called but you didn’t answer.’

  Did he? I left my phone downstairs so there’s no way to tell.

  ‘I rang the bell too,’ he says, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘And you didn’t answer that. I was worried,’ he adds. ‘I thought something might have happened . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, a grunt more than a word, desperately trying to figure out how to distract him and stop him inching closer. I could have sworn I locked the door but my mind is on the money. I can’t let him see it. How will I explain it? And now he’s looking at me strangely, head cocked to one side, waiting for me to stand up because it’s odd – it must seem odd – for me to be here, kneeling on the floor at his feet, smiling up at him. ‘What did you want?’ I ask him, standing up and blocking his view of the cage with my legs.

  Nate narrows his eyes at me. ‘I wanted to let you know that I looked into that journalist like you asked me to, and I couldn’t find any trace of him. I’ve got a detective trying to find out who he really is.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, wondering why he thought it urgent enough to drive all the way out to the hospital and then here to let me know. I could tell him I already know, but I don’t want to get drawn into a conversation about Gene selling the photos.

  I glance down at the cage behind me. The cash is just lying there, staring up at me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Nate asks. ‘You seem very jumpy.’

  ‘I’m fine. Just tidying up a few things.’ I swipe at my eyes and my gaze lands on June’s basketball trophies on the shelf by her desk. ‘She used to play basketball,’ I stammer.

  Nate obligingly turns to look at the trophies and I take advantage to grab the lid of the hamster cage and slam it down on top of the money, hiding it partially from view.

  ‘What happened to the hamster?’

  I swing back around, heart in my throat. Nate’s staring at the cage.

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘June will never forgive me,’ I say, hurrying past him for the door. I need to get him out of here. ‘I need to clean all this stuff out. It’s filthy. Probably a breeding ground for God knows what.’ I’m rattling away, trying to fill the space, hoping to distract him.

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing that. Why don’t you let me?’ He moves for the cage.

  I shake my head. ‘No, no, don’t worry. It’s really fine.’

  I stop by the door. Nate’s still in the room, looking around. If he looks closer he’ll see the money. I do the only thing that comes to mind – I step towards him and fall against him, sobbing loudly, clinging to him. It sounds fake to my ears, put on – especially given only yesterday I was screaming at him to leave me alone.

  Nate tenses so I start crying louder, my fingers digging into his shoulders and slowly I feel his arms come around my waist. His hands move up my back and reach my neck. I freeze. But then his fingers are in my hair, stroking. ‘It’s OK,’ he murmurs in my ear.

  I inch to the left, managing to make Nate twist around so his back is to the cage. Nate dips his head. I can feel his breath hot against my neck and it sends a shiver down my spine. His arms tighten around my waist and it strikes me how strong he is, how incapable I would be of fighting him off, but then, as though he’s reading my mind, Nate pulls away and takes a step backward.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ I say, striding to the door.

  Nate follows slowly, scanning June’s room from ceiling to floor before he leaves, his gaze sweeping across the bloodstain on the carpet. Finally, when my nerves are at breaking point, he turns and follows me out into the hall.

  I close the door behind us.

  ‘Did you ever remember any more?’ Nate asks as we head down the stairs. ‘About what happened in there?’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s still fuzzy.’

  But as I turn around, something jolts loose like a dislocated rib popping back into place – a dizzying sense of déjà vu that almost sends me toppling down the stairs. I get a flash of something. It’s not a complete image – just a partial, like someone has their finger over the lens of the camera, and it’s only a still frame.

  But I see June kneeling on the floor in front of the man.

  I only saw it from one angle; she was partly blocked by the man standing in front of her. I made the wrong assumption. I saw what I thought was a man in a mask about to sexually assault my daughter. But that’s not what was happening at all. She was kneeling down beside George’s cage.

  ‘What?’ Nate grips my elbow and when I blink, his face swims sharply into focus and I almost fall; only his hold on me keeps me upright. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks and there’s no disguising the concern on his face.

  ‘Yeah, I just . . . I . . . I’m just a little faint, that’s all.’

  He frowns at me, his hand still gripping my elbow, and I force a smile. ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  I make my way down the stairs, holding tight to the bannister, Nate’s hand gripping my arm.

  Chapter 41

  As we walk down the stairs I can’t shake the image of June from my head. Was she already opening the hamster cage when I walked into the room? It was only a split second – lasting only as long as a heartbeat, or the time it takes for a trigger to be pulled and a bullet to travel ten feet.

  She took the gunman upstairs on purpose, because she was planning to give him the money. Did she guess that’s what they had come for? Did she know who they were? Or was she just trying to give them something – money – to make them go away? But if she told them about the money, or they knew that Gene had money in the house and were targeting us because of that, then they likely suspect that it is still here. They may even know it’s in June’s room.

  So why haven’t they been back to look for it?

  I stumble and Nate’s grip on my arm tightens, as though he’s afraid I’m about to run. Could it be him?

  No! It wasn’t him. He’s too tall. My paranoia is getting the better of me. My mind is spewing out what-ifs like a pinwheel throwing out sparks. I’ll start blaming the gardener next. If onl
y I could figure out who knew about the money, I’d have a list of suspects.

  In the kitchen Nate finally lets go of my arm. ‘Can I get you anything before I go? Water? Something to eat?’ he asks, looking at me with such solicitousness that I almost laugh out loud at my crazy conjecture. My exhaustion is making me see a suspect in every face I encounter.

  I shake my head and my gaze lands on the dark ink stain I tried to scrub out of the wooden island and that, like Lady Macbeth’s damned spot, isn’t going anywhere.

  I turn back to Nate. ‘Are the DNA results back?’ I suddenly ask, remembering he was waiting on them.

  ‘They came in last night,’ he answers.

  I wait, holding my breath.

  ‘They weren’t able to make any matches,’ he says, grimacing. ‘There was only one trace found but the sample was too small to get anything from it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, frowning at the fingerprint ink on the wood. It seems odd, but I don’t know anything about how forensics work except what I’ve gleaned from CSI.

  ‘Actually, Ava,’ he says, ‘I didn’t come here to talk to you about the journalist.’

  He scratches his head and looks at me through his lashes, a little rueful, a little boyish. ‘They told me you might be suing the Sheriff’s department.’

  Oh. So this is why he came. Of course.

  ‘I understand,’ he says with a sigh. ‘And I’m not here in an official capacity, but I wanted to speak with you about it.’

  I hadn’t given any more thought to what I said yesterday about suing. The threats were spur of the moment. I was channeling Robert. I had no idea if I even had a case but the very fact he’s here, wanting to discuss it in an unofficial capacity, suggests I probably do. Interesting.

  Taking my silence as an invitation, he carries on. ‘I think you have a case,’ he says, surprising me. ‘Against the hospital,’ he finishes. ‘It was their security breach that allowed someone disguised as a doctor to enter the ICU.’

  ‘And a Sheriff’s deputy was posted outside June’s door,’ I remark, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Nate chews his lip unhappily. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’