by Lisa Gardner
Jillian smiled. “I’ve earned the right to be a little nuts?”
“Jillian, that’s not what I meant—”
“I know I’m struggling, Toppi. I know I’m not quite myself. Maybe I didn’t forget everything like Meg and maybe I’m not as aggressively hostile as Carol, but I am . . . wounded. There, that’s an accomplishment for me right there. I hate saying that out loud. It sounds so weak. Birds get wounded. Children get wounded. I’m supposed to be above all that. Frankly, I wasn’t even raped. What do I have to cry about?”
“Oh, Jillian . . .”
“I know I’m being unfair to Libby,” Jillian said quietly. “I’d like to tell you I have a good reason, but I don’t know what it is. Right now . . . I just don’t feel like coming home these days. Some nights I wish I could go anyplace but here. I’d like to get in my car and just drive. Drive, drive, drive.” She smiled again, but it was sad. “Maybe I can work my way to Mexico.”
“You’re running away from us.”
“No. I’m just running. It’s the only time I feel safe.”
“He’s dead now, Jillian. You are safe.”
Jillian’s shoulders came down. She shook her head and said hoarsely, “But there are so many more just like him, Toppi. I’ve been reading the books. And you have no idea . . . The world, it is such a bad place.” Her shoulders started to shake. God, she was not herself today. And then she was back in that room, that horribly dark room, with Trish needing her, Trish depending on her, and she had not got it done. Far from saving the day, she had nearly gotten raped herself. And now he was gone, and what would give her life meaning without Trisha to take care of or Eddie Como to hate?
And then she was thinking of Meg, I don’t think I was happy, and she was thinking of Carol, Let’s have some chocolate cake, and suddenly she knew she had failed both of them. She had turned them into warriors, but long after defeating their enemy, were they really better off? They had nailed Eddie Como, but none of them had managed to heal.
And now Eddie Como was dead and they were unraveling at the seams.
Jillian squeezed her eyes shut, covered her mouth with her hand. Pull it together, pull it together. Her mother was in the next room. And then she was thinking of Sergeant Griffin again, and that confused her even more. Men did not make things better. Just look at Eddie . . .
Toppi had crossed the kitchen. She touched Jillian’s shoulder gently as Jillian drew in a ragged breath.
“I’m not an expert,” Toppi said quietly. “Lord knows I couldn’t have gone through everything you’ve been through. But I do know this. When you’re really hurting, when you’re really feeling low, nothing is as good as crying on your mother’s shoulder. You can do that, Jillian. She would like that. And it would do you both a world of good.”
Jillian drew in another deep breath. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
Toppi’s gaze was too penetrating. Jillian looked away. She focused on her breathing, getting to slow, steady breaths. Then she wiped her cheeks with her hands, blinked her eyes clear. She should go to bed soon. Get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. She would feel better then. Stronger, in control, ready to take on the press, ready to take on the police because it was only a matter of time . . .
“Well, let me go see her,” Jillian said briskly.
“All right,” Toppi said. “All right.” But it was obvious from her voice that she wasn’t fooled.
Jillian went into the living room, where her mother sat in her favorite chair watching TV. At sixty-five, Olivia Hayes was still a beautiful woman. Tiny as a bird, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes. Her hair was dyed, of course, every eight weeks at her favorite salon, with six shades of brown to match her original color as closely as possible. Libby had always been vain about her hair. When Jillian was a little girl, she used to watch her mother brush out the long, thick locks when she came home at night. One hundred strokes. Then would come the saltwater gargle to preserve her vocal cords, followed by a heavy cream to protect her face.
“If you take good care of your body,” Libby always said with a wink, “your body will take good care of you.”
Jillian leaned over. “Hello, Mom,” she murmured. “Sorry I’m late.” She hugged her mother gently, careful not to squeeze too hard.
When she straightened, she saw something flash in her mother’s gaze. Frustration, anger, it was hard to tell, and Libby would never say. Since her stroke ten years ago, she had limited movement in the right side of her body, as well as expressive aphasia—while she could understand communication perfectly, she could no longer speak or write back. As one of the doctors tried explaining to Jillian, in her mother’s mind she could think fluently, but when she tried to get the words past her lips, her brain ran into a wall, blocking the flow.
Now Libby communicated via a “picture book,” filled with images of everything from a toilet to an apple to pictures of Jillian, Toppi, Trish. When she wanted something, she would tap on the picture. Right after Trisha’s funeral, Libby had stroked her daughter’s photo so often, she had literally worn it out.
“You saw the news?” Jillian asked, taking a seat on the couch.
Her mother tapped her left index finger once, meaning yes.
“He’s dead now, Mom,” Jillian said quietly. “He can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Her mother’s chin came up. She had a fierce look on her face, but her fingers remained quiet.
“Are you happy?”
No movement.
“Sad?”
No movement.
“Frightened?”
Her mother made an impatient sound deep in her throat. Jillian paused, then she got it. “You’re mad?”
One tap.
Jillian hesitated. “You wanted the trial?”
Hard tap!
“But why, Mom? This way you know he’s punished. He can’t get off because someone in the jury box has a guilty conscience. We’ll never have to worry about parole or some kind of prison break. It’s over. We won.”
Her mother made another impatient sound in the back of her throat. Jillian understood. Why questions didn’t work well with this system. To get the right answer, you had to ask the right question. It was Jillian’s job, as the person still capable of speech, to come up with the right question.
Toppi had materialized in the doorway. “You didn’t see the news conference at six-thirty, did you?”
“No.”
“Eddie’s lawyer says he has a witness who proves Eddie couldn’t have attacked Carol. Instead, he was across town returning a movie at the time.”
“You’re kidding!” Jillian sat up straight. Beside her, her mother had flipped open the picture book. Her left fingers frantically skimmed away.
“That’s ridiculous,” Jillian announced. “Carol’s not even sure what time he broke into her house. You can’t have a definite alibi without a definite time.”
“Some of the press is starting to talk of a miscarriage of justice. Maybe Eddie was railroaded. Maybe the police were a little too eager to have a suspect. Maybe . . .” Toppi hesitated. “Maybe you, Carol and Meg applied a little too much pressure.”
“That is absurd!” Jillian was on her feet, her hands fisted at her sides. When backed into a corner, her first reaction was always anger, and now she was in a rage. Quick, someone get her a reporter. Any reporter. She wanted to slug one good. “All we did was put together the blood-donor connection between Trisha and Meg. That’s it! Eddie’s the one who just happened to have access to their home addresses. Eddie’s the one who just happened to see two out of three rape victims within weeks of their attacks. Eddie’s the one who just happened to have his semen present in their houses. How the hell does the press explain that?”
“They don’t. They just flash clean-cut photos from his high school yearbook and use words like minority, suspected of rape, tragically shot down.”
“Oh for the love of God!” Jillian had to sit down again. Her h
ead was suddenly pounding. She thought she might be ill. “They’re turning him into a martyr,” she murmured. “Whoever shot him . . . He’s making him seem innocent.”
Libby thumped Jillian’s arm. She had found the picture she wanted. A new one, added by Toppi just one year ago to help Libby communicate about the trial. It featured a blindfolded woman holding the scales of justice.
“I know you wanted the trial,” Jillian said impatiently. “I understood that.”
Her mother thinned her lips. She tapped the photo more emphatically, this time the scales.
“Justice? Not just a trial, you want justice?”
Hard tap!
“Because we don’t have it yet,” Jillian filled in slowly. “The press is now trying the case in absentia, and they’re using Eddie’s looks and ethnicity as evidence. And the only way we could counter is with Eddie himself. By actually having the trial and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eddie Como is the College Hill Rapist.”
Her mother tapped, tapped, tapped.
“You’re right, Mom. I’m angry now, too. We were robbed this morning.” Jillian’s voice grew bitter. “As if we hadn’t already lost too much.”
Her mother flipped through the pages again. She came to another picture, this one also new. It looked like a child’s drawing, a caricature of a monster with big yellow fangs and red bugged-out eyes. Toppi had done the honors, her rendition of Eddie, because there was no way they would permit his real photo in the picture book. They refused to give him that much presence in their lives.
Now Libby’s left hand scrabbled with the page of the photo album. She got the plastic cover back. She yanked Eddie’s picture from the sticky back. Then she looked at Toppi and Jillian with her chin up, her brown eyes ablaze, and her lower lip trembling with unshed tears. She crumpled up Eddie Como in her feeble left hand. Then she flung the monster across the room.
Toppi and Jillian watched the paper hit the floor. The wad rolled to a stop five feet away. Then it was still.
“You’re right,” Jillian said softly. “Eddie Como is gone, so once and for all let’s get him out of our lives. Frankly, I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of wondering over and over again what I could’ve done differently.” Her voice rose, gained strength. “Fuck the press, Mom. Fuck the public defender. And fuck some voyeuristic public that has nothing better to do than watch our pain get played out on the nightly news. Eddie Como has taken too much from us, and I’m not giving him anything more. It’s over. That’s that. We’re not talking about him anymore. We’re not worrying about him anymore. We’re not afraid of him anymore. From here on out, Eddie Como is gone, and we are done!”
CHAPTER 19
The Victims Club
TEN FORTY-FIVE P.M.
Carol was not done. She had not gotten Eddie Como out of her life. Instead, she was curled up, fully dressed, in an empty bathtub. The cold porcelain sides gave her a chill, so an hour ago she had pulled down all the towels to keep her warm. It was dark in the upstairs bathroom. No windows, no source of natural light. She didn’t know what time it was, but she suspected that it was late. Probably after ten. Things happened after ten.
Dan still wasn’t home. The house maintained its silence. Sometimes she hummed to herself simply to make a sound. But mostly she lay in the bathtub, a grown woman who couldn’t return to the womb. She rested her head on the hard, cold ledge and waited for the inevitable to happen.
I didn’t turn off the TV. I didn’t turn off the TV.
It wouldn’t matter. It was after ten. She was all alone. And she knew, she knew way down deep, that somewhere in the house, a window was sliding open, a foot was hitting the floor, a man was ducking into her bedroom.
Bad things happened. Women got raped, people got shot, others were blown up by car bombs. Husbands deserted you, wives went crazy, children were never born. Bad things happened. Especially after 10:00 P.M. Especially to her.
Eddie Como had sent her a note. She found it in the day’s mail, which Dan had left on the kitchen counter. The pink envelope looked like a Hallmark card and bore Jillian’s return address. A nice little note, Dan had probably thought. So had she. Until she’d ripped it open.
I’m going to get you, Eddie had scrawled in red ink across white butcher paper. Even if it’s from beyond the grave . . .
Carol had bolted back upstairs to the bathroom, but not before first making a stop at the home safe.
I’m going to get you . . .
Not this time, Carol decided. Not anymore, you son of a bitch. Carol reached beneath the towels and, very gently, stroked the gun.
Ten fifty-eight P.M.
Sylvia Blaire was walking home alone from the university library. She had a test tomorrow morning. Final exam for Psych 101. In theory, Sylvia enjoyed Psych 101, but she hadn’t kept up on the readings quite the way she should have. Now she was cramming twelve weeks’ worth of learning into two nights of studying, a feat she’d mastered in high school, but which was proving far more difficult in college.
Personally, she thought Professor Scalia should cancel the test. As if anyone could study today, with the big explosion just six blocks away, then the sirens wailing all morning long. The air still smelled acrid, a mixture of gasoline, scorched metal and melted plastic. In the student union, all anyone could talk about was the commotion. Frankly, nothing exciting ever happened in Providence. As far as the students were concerned, the school should cancel exam week and let them enjoy the buzz.
No such luck, though. Professors were such pains in the ass. So Sylvia had left the student union in favor of the library, where she’d managed to read six chapters of her textbook before falling asleep and dreaming about chickens scratching out the Pythagorean theorem in return for pellets. Screw it. She was going home to bed.
Sylvia walked down the street to her apartment. Generally there were more people out this time of night, but during finals week most of the students were sequestered away in various study labs suffering massive anxiety attacks. The street was quiet, the old shrouded houses still.
It didn’t bother her. The full moon was bright, the lamps cheery. Besides, she knew the drill. Walk with your chin up, your shoulders square and your steps brisk. Perverts sought out meek women who wouldn’t fight back, not former track stars like her.
Not that Providence had many perverts anymore. That rapist dude was dead. The women on campus had cheered.
Sylvia finally arrived at the old house that boasted her second-floor studio apartment. She paused on the darkened front steps, then shook her head. Stupid outdoor light had burnt out again. Thing seemed to go every three weeks and the landlord liked to wait another three before replacing it. This one Sylvia had bought with her own money. Like she could see anything tucked inside the covered patio without a light.
She dragged her backpack off her shoulder, and with a long-suffering sigh began digging for her keys. She finally found the heavy metal key chain in the bottom of her bag. The new key ring was a gift from the Rhode Island Blood Center commemorating the donation of her eighth pint of blood just two weeks ago. Way to go, Sylvia, she was now a member of the gallon club.
Sylvia drew out her keys. She flipped through the massive lot that she kept meaning to pare down but never did, until she came to the desired one. She slid her key into the front door lock.
A noise sounded on the right. Sylvia turned her head . . .
Eleven-twelve P.M.
Jillian is dreaming. In this dream, she knows that she is dreaming, but she doesn’t care. This dream is filled with warm, happy colors. This dream lifts the weight off her chest and takes her, for the first time in a long time, to a place she wants to go.
Jillian is sixteen years old. She is in a hotel—most of her childhood has been spent in hotels. It is two A.M. and Libby is gone. Her gig ended hours ago, but time has never meant much to Libby. Nights are for singing, dancing, drinking, having a good time. Libby has probably met another man by now and
is once more falling in love. At this stage of the game, Jillian is used to the drill. Libby falls in love and disappears even more nights of the week. Her singing grows more robust, she wears her nicest gowns and brings Jillian lots of frivolous gifts. Then the bloom goes off the rose. She dumps him, he dumps her, or maybe his wife comes home. Who knows?
Libby falls out of love. They get a new hotel and she promises to spend more time with her daughter. Until, of course, the next handsome man enters the room.
The last time was different, however. The last time had consequences. Jillian now has a baby half sister, whom she was allowed to name. Jillian chose Trisha.
Three-month-old Trisha has fat pink cheeks and big blue eyes. Her head is covered with a downy mist of soft brown hair. She likes to grip Jillian’s finger in her tiny little fist. She likes to kick her tiny little feet. And she gurgles a lot, and blows bubbles a lot, and loves big wet zerberts right on her tummy. She also breaks into a wide, smacking smile every time Jillian picks her up.
Now Jillian is cradling baby Trish in her arms and watching her baby-blue eyes grow heavy with sleep. She tickles Trish’s chubby cheek with her finger. She inhales the sweet scent of baby powder. She feels her chest expand with the force of her love and thinks that if she cared for Trisha any more, her heart would surely explode.
Libby has never been the perfect mother. There have been times, in fact, when Jillian has grown close to hating her and her careless ways. But as of three months ago, Jillian forgave her mother everything in return for this one, precious gift. Trisha Jane Hayes. Finally, Jillian has someone she can love with her whole heart. Finally, Jillian has someone who will never leave.
The quiet, still night. The perfect weight of Trisha in her arms. The pure beauty of her baby sister, smiling back up at her and kicking her tiny, little feet.
In the dream Jillian knows she is dreaming, she would like to hold this moment forever. She understands, in this dream she knows she is dreaming, that darkness lingers just beyond her sight. That if she turns her head, the beautiful hotel room will spin away and she will find herself in a far different, uglier place. That if she looks at baby Trisha too closely, baby Trisha will spin away and she will find herself holding her grown sister’s dying form. That if she thinks too hard at all, she will realize that this moment never happened, that her baby sister cried most nights for her mother, and that Jillian was actually little more than an overwhelmed sixteen-year-old substitute. In this dream she knows she is dreaming, it is only her love for her sister that is real.
