He switched over to AM and found a distorted broadcast of a religious talk show. The host was yelling and rambling, barely breathing between words. For a moment it was actually soothing.
Until he focused on the subject matter.
“She’s evil,” the deep and raspy voice preached. “I can tell you that much with absolute certainty. I can practically see some of you out there rolling your eyes but I say to you: she is unholy. Believe the rumors. She has made a pact with the devil. We must reach out to her fans before it’s too late.”
He changed the channel. A local news program.
“That was today’s sports. Now to today’s top story.” Another man’s voice, much higher in pitch and speaking instead of yelling. “A teenaged girl in Worcester was found dead last night of an apparent suicide. We received reports that the girl cut out her tongue and removed her teeth with pliers before jumping from her bedroom window. A note left behind cited Angie Everstein, stating that the popular singer was inside her thoughts.”
“Terrible,” the female co-anchor said. “Just awful. In related news, Angie will be playing on Gallows Hill in Salem on Halloween night. Admission is free but local authorities expect a large crowd. They’re urging attendees to arrive as early as possible. Her fans are expected to number in the thousands. Personally, I’m not surprised. Her songs do have a way of getting stuck in your head.”
“They certainly do,” the man said, laughing.
The bathroom mirror was fogged over. Shawna wiped away some of the condensation, revealing her distorted reflection. She did not like what she saw. Eyes a bit lopsided. Teeth a bit crooked. Skin that seemed oily no matter how often she washed. She brushed her hair, considered wearing it in a ponytail the way Mia used to like it. That would only draw attention, and today of all days, she wanted to blend in.
She peered outside. The bathroom window overlooked her street. There were no white vans with tinted windows but she suspected Mike Mallory would not be so obvious. He’d assured her he’d be watching. Had he been lying?
Rubbing her wrists, she winced at the leftover pain from the zip-ties.
She finished dressing, put in her hearing aids, and opened the door.
And stopped suddenly when she saw the shape standing there.
“Good morning,” the woman said.
Not just any woman. The one from yesterday. Angie’s manager. This close, Shawna took in her features. Glenda’s skin was just past its prime. The woman had been attractive in her day but age was taking effect. Her face was unnatural in a way that made Shawna’s scalp tingle.
“Morning,” Shawna said, looking at the floor.
“How would you like to take the day off from school? We can film your interview. I’ll make sure you’re pretty if that’s what you’re worried about. We have a professional makeup crew in the trailer. After we’re done, you’ll look just like your sister.”
“I don’t want to look anything like her. Now, excuse me. I’m going to be late.”
Glenda did not move. “She said you might resist. You really should reconsider. All you have to do is sit down and answer a few questions.”
Shawna tossed her hair towel onto the floor. She’d hoped the movement would make her seem defiant but, if anything, she felt childish. “What could you possibly want to ask about her that you don’t already know? I’m not exactly going to bring in the ratings. I hate my sister, in case you hadn’t figured it out. I’m not going to look into that camera and pretend everything is peachy. She’s made my life a living hell.”
“And she can make it much worse if you don’t cooperate.”
Shawna froze. “What did you just say?”
“Your sister’s homecoming isn’t just about publicity. It’s so much more than that.”
“Listen, lady. I don’t know what you’re talking about but I do know you’re going to get out of my way or I’ll call the cops. This is my house, not yours.”
“Don’t be foolish. Take the day off. Do the interview.”
Shawna went into her room without answering and grabbed her backpack.
She spun back around, ready to tell Glenda off once more, but the woman was gone. The hallway was empty. She did not hear creaking steps or a closing door, nothing to indicate where she’d retreated. She was just light on her feet, that was all. Nothing more to it.
Who are you kidding? There’s something wrong with her and the crew and this whole business.
She took the stairs two at a time. Her mother was in the kitchen, humming, happy as could be. Probably picturing her debt disappearing. Shawna could practically see the fantasies. Excesses that had long been out of her budget. Diamond jewelry and a new convertible. Flat screen TVs and a patio ten times too large. “That you, Shawna?” There was a package of Pop-Tarts on the kitchen table. Angie must have been out somewhere, signing autographs or being interviewed. No fancy spreads today.
Shawna’s stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten the night before on account of being kidnapped and the thought of food made her mouth water. Even the cardboard pastry seemed like an indulgence. But it felt like surrendering somehow, acknowledging how little she meant to this family. She would not give her mother the satisfaction.
She ignored the Pop-Tarts and Kristen Everstein, slamming the door on her way out.
At the foot of the driveway she saw the trailer Glenda had mentioned. The camera crew talked amongst themselves, looking up and down the street, perhaps planning their next shot.
Before she turned the corner, she took one last look at her home. It seemed foreign now, the house of a stranger. Hard to believe she’d lived there her entire life. But that wasn’t what made her stomach switch from hunger to repulsion.
Glenda stood in the bay windows.
She waved.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Shawna said twenty minutes later when she showed up to school. Her skin was covered with sweat and any hopes of catching her breath were dashed as she saw the banner hanging over the front doors.
It read: Welcome Home, Angie!
It was not a shabby flag picked up at the local party store. This was an expensive job. The lettering seemed professional. Weren’t Mr. Fuller and his close colleagues always complaining of budgets being slashed? She’d heard rumors of a teachers’ strike in the near future, yet the school had chosen to spend their money on this?
Someone elbowed her arm. She lost grip of her books and phone. The former were fine, landing on the grass. The latter fell a little too far to the right, hitting the concrete, screen side down. She heard the undeniable crack of glass.
“Sorry about that.”
She looked up to see Derek smirking. He did not offer to help her pick up the mess. “Guess I didn’t see you there.” He stopped just in front of the steps. “You’ll never guess what’s inside. You’re going to love it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He stepped through the entrance without answering.
She picked up her books, shoved them into her bag, and flipped over her phone. The screen was shattered, as she’d expected. Her home page, a picture of her and Mia from seven months ago, was sliced into a hundred tiny sections. She knew she ought to change the background, had tried plenty, but each time her thumb froze. It seemed final. Like changing the wallpaper meant accepting the truth. The truth being that Mia was gone, changed somehow. And the rest of the school—the rest of the town—seemed to be following in her footsteps.
She shoved the phone into her pocket, careful not to damage it further, and hurried inside just as the first bell was sounding.
Late students filtered in, bumping into her, paying her no notice. To be fair, she was asking for it, standing mannequin-like in the middle of the crowd. She understood Derek’s choice of words now, although he’d been wrong in his assessment. She did not love what she saw. Quite the opposite.
The front display case that housed awards and pictures of star athletes had been torn out. In its place hung several
large paintings of her sister, each expertly framed. Shawna walked toward the closest, touched the wooden frame. It felt cool and clammy and made her mouth run dry. There were small etchings along the edges. Not just designs but renditions of things she’d rather not see. Tiny creatures and a list of other atrocities.
The paintings themselves appeared old-fashioned, something from a museum. All the pictures showed her sister in crude positions. Naked, of course. Just like the photo leaked online the day before. Angie’s perfect breasts and body on display for all to see.
Beneath each painting was a plaque and written on each plaque were lyrics to her songs.
The surrounding crowd surprised her. Some snickered as Derek had but for the most part they did not bat an eye at the new additions. They walked toward homerooms, spoke of weekend plans and crushes and normal high school subjects while Shawna Everstein tried to process what the hell was happening in Salem, Massachusetts.
Mr. Fuller, she thought. He would know what to do. He would help her through this.
She hurried along, putting the paintings in her periphery, but stopped only a few steps into her trek.
There was movement back there. Not of the crowd or the cleaning crew that swept and mopped nearby. The movement came from the paintings themselves. It conjured images of old haunted house films. Black-and-white and, more often than not, cheesy as hell. Wasn’t that one of the clichés in such movies? The painting with the eyes that followed your every step? It was comical on a screen but here, in reality, Shawna did not find anything particularly funny.
She did not turn around to test her theory, did not turn around until she rounded the corner and the paintings could no longer be seen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
REAL ESTATE IS A DANGEROUS BUSINESS
ESMERALDA’S CHEST HURT. SHE HAD not followed her doctor’s orders from her last office visit. Her blood pressure and cholesterol were through the roof and, her physician had warned her several times, if she did not make a change, she was headed for trouble.
But trouble had found her.
It was hard to think about diet and exercise when she had other things on her mind. Last night, she wasn’t able to shake the feeling that someone stood outside her front door. Watching. Waiting. But for what? Her mind offered no answers but it was certain of one thing.
She was in danger.
It was all connected to Angie and her team. The longer Esmeralda stuck around, the worse things would get. If an event could be held at her own store against her will, the place she’d owned and operated for nearly twenty years, how far was their reach? It was time to throw in the towel. She was going to die young. Part of her knew she’d reached the point of no return with her weight. She could eat all the salads in the world but Esmeralda was still heading for heart failure followed by cardiac arrest.
So why not spend her final years—however many were left—doing something she liked? Her savings account was nothing to laugh at, though it wouldn’t afford her many luxuries. It would allow her to live within her means, though. Especially somewhere that offered cheap land.
Like Florida.
Her laptop lay open on her kitchen counter, screen alive with images of the ocean, next to a nearly empty bag of doughnuts. Grease leaked through the bottom, turning the paper soggy. She wondered what it did to her insides.
After she’d given up on sleep, she’d made a pot of coffee and compared condominium prices. Most of those within her range were part of giant complexes, more like hotels than homes. Her own apartment, the third floor of a Victorian house, was spacious and had character aplenty. The appliances may have been outdated but the place oozed a certain charm only found in New England. She would miss this place but most of her family had died young or fallen out of touch. There was nothing keeping her here.
Her mind was made. She would contact a realtor from the list she’d created and start packing. Her rent was month to month, both at home and at work. Once she found something, she could leave with little notice.
The sooner, the better.
Her phone rang. Not her cell but the landline. Her skin crawled at the sound. She hadn’t heard that tone in months, only owned the thing to save money on her cable bill as part of a package deal. It was probably a telemarketer and she wasn’t in the mood. She let it go to voicemail.
Except once the recording played and the beep sounded, no one left a message. Not of the normal variety at least. There was only what sounded like heavy breathing. In the background was whispering of some sort. She considered answering just to hang up but the telemarketer beat her to it. The message ended.
She threw away the remnants of her breakfast, lunch already on her mind, and thought of all the fun to be had in Florida. Her college friend, Jeanie Rogers, had moved there ages ago. It really was a blast, she insisted. The temperature was perfect and the cocktails were unparalleled. Not to mention the food and the—
The phone rang again.
She dropped the bag, greasy doughnut rolling onto the floor.
Don’t answer it.
But she’d put up with enough bullshit to last a lifetime these last few days. She walked across the kitchen and lifted the phone. “This better be good,” she said. “I don’t have time for anything other than an emergency.”
A pause. Then breathing. Then whispering. Then a voice. “This is an emergency, I’m afraid. Is this Harriet Hopkins?” Female. Indeterminate age. Neither young nor old.
It was strange hearing her real name. Good news never followed those words. “Yes, speaking.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at home but I wanted to catch you before you left for the day.”
“What’s this about?” And how do you know my schedule?
“It’s about Arnold Goldman.”
“What about him?” She rolled her eyes, thinking he’d gotten himself into trouble. She knew her shop’s owner had a bit of a gambling problem but if that were the case, surely his family would be notified.
“He had an accident last night. He fell down the stairs.”
She covered her mouth. “Oh my god. Is he okay?”
“I’m afraid not, Ms. Hopkins. He died early this morning.”
She did not speak for a moment. Not because she mourned the man. Arnold had been nice enough, had been a pleasure to rent from, but there was something else that caused her reaction. Something more primal.
Fear.
She recalled their last meeting, how he’d looked exhausted, eyes darting as if someone watched them both at his doorstep. What was it he’d said?
They started following me, started taunting me. Started threatening me.
Her chest tightened. She could feel the blood protest as it moved through her body, thick like sludge from a lifetime of fats and sweets.
Not just threats after all, she thought.
“Ms. Hopkins? Are you there?”
She shook her head. “Yes, I’m sorry.”
“I understand this is a lot to take in but I do want to talk about next steps with you if you’re able.”
“Next steps? How do you mean?”
“I’m speaking about your business, Esmeralda. I want to make this transition as smooth as possible.”
“Pardon me, but who am I speaking with again?”
“Pardon me. How rude. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Glenda and I’m Angie Everstein’s manager. I purchased the property from Mr. Goldman just prior to his death.”
She went on but Esmeralda stopped listening. She turned her attention toward her front door. For the second time in twelve hours, she was certain someone stood just outside. And even if she turned the knob to find her front yard empty, the suspicion would not dwindle.
The realtor’s name was Roberta Jenkins. Her skin was dark orange, the poster child for spray tanning. Her hair was fried from a lifetime of do-it-yourself dying kits. She stood outside Josh’s door, holding up her phone as he climbed the stairs. “I was just calling you.”
“What�
�s wrong?” Josh said.
“I’ve been knocking for twenty minutes. No answer.”
“She ought to be home.” He checked his watch. It was ten o’clock and Melissa rarely left the house. As far as he knew she’d stopped going to yoga class and aside from the occasional visit to her Aunt Marie—the only relative with whom she still spoke—his soon-to-be ex-wife was a shut-in.
That’s not quite true. She frequents plenty of bars, doesn’t she? That’s where she met her suitors. That’s where they picked her up before they fucked her brains out while you were trying to start your business.
“I’ll let us in,” he said, removing his keys from his pocket. It had been three days since he’d last been inside the condominium, stopping by to grab a bin of records he’d forgotten. The place seemed less and less familiar with each visit. Just a shell he’d once shared with the love of his life.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” Roberta said. “I have a showing.” This said with an air of annoyance, like Josh was an inconvenience.
“Will that be long enough?” He slid his key into the door.
“It’ll have to be.” She tapped her foot as he turned the knob.
He tried the light but nothing happened. The kitchen and living room remained dark. Too dark. Every window and curtain was closed. As if night had never left. He squinted and made out piles of trash: cups and bowls overflowing in the sink, a stack of pizza boxes, something that could’ve once been a sandwich.
Next, he noticed the smell. It hit his nostrils and stomach simultaneously. His eyes watered. His throat tightened. “I’m sorry about the mess.”
She turned up her nose. “I can come back if you’d like.”
He shook his head. He’d rather get this over with, needed to sell the place. They would make a sizeable return on their (his) investment but this wasn’t about the money. This was about moving on. Otherwise he’d be stuck like this, in limbo, pining over a woman who no longer loved him.
A small swarm of flies took flight from the kitchen garbage bucket and flew into the living room. They landed on something. A shape of some sort on the couch. What he first thought to be a pillow moved on its own accord. For some odd reason, he imagined the lump was not human. It was something else. Something not meant for the light of day. Hence the darkness.
A Voice So Soft Page 9
