The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  She wondered when fetuses began to feel pain. Wondered what it felt like when it was clear something had gone horribly amiss, when everything went from darkened safety to agony to nothing. Wondered how long it lasted. She tried to remember being on the table but couldn’t quite manage it. But the little thing had been so small, right? Maybe the right nerves hadn’t connected yet. Probably it had all been over in a blink.

  Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her pocket and looked down at it. Ivy. It was almost two. She ignored it, pressed the phone facedown against her thigh.

  “You want to get that?”

  She shook her head. “Are you working tonight or do you have it off?”

  “I forgot that you don’t know my schedule anymore. I work almost every night in the summer, and plenty of days. It’s busy, and the tips are good. I’ve had a couple thousand-dollar shifts.”

  “That’s a lot.” Maybe it hadn’t been so difficult for him to find the $300.

  “Not always, after you pool it. Lou always wants to make sure the busboys get their share.” He shrugged. “Off-season can be pretty dead.”

  “You live in Provincetown year-round?”

  “I’m from New Bedford, originally. My dad’s there. Sometimes I stay with him in the cold months to save money—and make some. I help him with his plowing gigs, and there’s a tavern there that’ll let me pick up shifts.”

  “What’s it called?”

  A grin. “It’s actually just called the Tavern. Right off Union.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Lots of questions.” He looked pleased, like it meant she was interested in his life. “Twenty-four.”

  She considered smashing her head against the window, wondered which would break first, her skull or the glass. How many blows would it take to find out? She clawed at the bare skin of her arms as another cramp twisted inside her.

  “You in pain? Did they give you anything?”

  He deserved better than this. “Just some Motrin.”

  “Doesn’t look like it’s enough.”

  She forced herself to lay her fingers flat against her inner arms. Her phone was ringing again. It had slid between her legs and was clutched between her thighs. She spread them slightly, enough to see that Ivy hadn’t given up.

  “You need to get that?”

  “It’s my mom. She thinks I’m with a friend.” She looked over at him in time to see his smile fade. “I guess I am, though, right?” she added.

  The smile returned. It was touching and pathetic, and she wanted to smack him and throw herself on him and beg him to hold her. All at the same time. She could hurt him. She could use him. She could do both simultaneously. She clenched her teeth over a scream and turned the music up. She sang along, loudly and badly and long enough to convince him she was being silly instead of trying to keep herself from going utterly crazy. It almost drowned out the ringing phone. Esteban added his voice to the mix as if they were on a road trip, as if this were the normal side of happy.

  When they reached the rotary that could shunt them toward Yarmouth, a wave of nausea rolled through her, and she clutched at his shoulder. “Keep going. Please.”

  “Um. Where?”

  Her phone rang, the sixth time. Maggie jabbed the music silent and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hi.”

  “Hello, Maggie,” her mother said. “When can I expect you?”

  “I’ll be home later.”

  “Later? Could you be more specific, please? I’m making cassoulet and a—”

  “Apple and fennel salad. With figs for dessert. You told me. I might not be home for dinner. Probably won’t.”

  Esteban gave her a confused look. He took another turn around the rotary.

  “This is a special dinner,” said Ivy. “I thought we could have some time together, just the three of us.”

  “Three.” There was a demon inside her for sure, dragging its claws along her walls. Cassoulet was his favorite.

  Ivy sighed. “I was going to talk to you about this.”

  “But you said—”

  “I needed support when you disappeared,” Ivy snapped. “Did you think even for a minute about how hard it would be for me? I was alone, and you know why.”

  Maggie’s mouth opened and closed over one aborted sentence, then another.

  Ivy’s voice had gone low, heavy with the shame of it all. “Maggie,” she said. “Margaret. You are being incredibly selfish.”

  Esteban had pulled over. He watched Maggie from the driver’s seat.

  She faced the window, lips stiff, legs stiff. “I’ll be out tonight,” she finally said. Her heart wasn’t stiff. It was galloping. She couldn’t believe what she’d just said. It was exhilarating. Terrifying. “I won’t be home until late.”

  “You will come home right now and get ready for dinner,” her mother said shrilly. “He’ll be here at six, and you will have your face on and be nice!”

  “No,” Maggie whispered.

  “Do you realize who’s paying for your education? Where do you think that money came from? You’ve been willing enough to take it, and you wouldn’t have this chance if not for Lawrence!”

  “Mom…” Her voice was as small as that baby inside her had been. And just as powerless.

  “After all that mess, he forgave you. He supported you.” Her mother’s voice was like Maggie’s uterus had been—nurturing, closing around her like a fist, dark, and never, never safe. “I forgave you, too, with the Lord’s help. Neither of us is holding a grudge! You were so young. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “I—”

  “If you ruin this for me, for all of us, I’ll—”

  Maggie ended the call, though it took several taps of her thumb. She kept missing the button. She threw the phone down. It bounced off the top of her foot.

  Esteban patted her shoulder, reminding her of his presence. “Hi. What’s up?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “You’re shaking.”

  She was shaking.

  “You don’t want to go home?”

  More shaking.

  “It’s going to be okay, Layl—Maggie.” He leaned over, slid his arm across her shoulders.

  For a second, a bare, infinite second, she let it happen. But then the monster rose up in her, fangs and claws and rage. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she screamed, slicing her fingernails across his cheek.

  Esteban grunted and cursed as she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. His fingers closed over her hand and squeezed until she felt the bones rolling against each other.

  “You bitch,” he shouted. As soon as she let go of his hair, he shoved her. The force of it sent her head cracking against the window, but it didn’t stop her. She leapt at him again, but this time, he was ready. He grabbed her wrists and shook her. She tried to bite him, but he jerked to the side. His elbow slammed into her cheek. The momentum sent her head crashing into the dash, blood on her tongue and pain riding down her spine. By the time she managed to right herself, he was out of the car, pulling his phone from his pocket.

  She jumped out after him. He didn’t see her coming. She snatched his phone and ran.

  “What the fuck, Maggie?” Helpless and confused. She hated the sound of his weakness.

  She threw the phone in a ditch at the side of the road. With a splash, it disappeared into the scummy green depths. She watched it sink with savage satisfaction.

  “What the fuck!” roared Esteban.

  Insane. Monster. Wrong and wrong and wrong, and this will never, ever be right. She ran as he chased her back to the car. Terror and fury and confusion gripped her, twisted her, shook her like a rat in the teeth of a hound.

  “What the fuck, Maggie,” Esteban yelled again.

  She whirled around as she reached her car, her cheek hot and tight w
here he’d hit her, her lip stinging, her head pounding. “I did it, EstAYbahn.” Bearing her teeth. A vicious grin. “I killed it. It’s dead. Are you happy now? Back to normal? Did those fries taste good? No! Get away from me,” she shrieked as he reached for her.

  His eyes were wild, his face a dusky pink, three red welts across his cheek and jaw. Her back hit the window as he inched toward her, arms up and hands out. To contain her. To hold her down and keep her still and quiet like a good girl must always be. A tiny drop of blood shimmered and welled on his cheekbone. First blood, first blood, first blood, it means you’re a good girl. She screamed and clapped her hands to the sides of her face. Dropped to her knees, let her elbows hit the ground. “Go away,” she sobbed.

  Look at all those nice things he’d done. Taken care of her. Paid his share.

  He deserved better.

  “Everything okay here?” This was a new voice. A man’s voice. Maggie jerked up, panting. She scraped her hair out of her eyes.

  A guy in his twenties, elbow hanging out the driver’s side window of his pickup, backward baseball cap, messy blond hair peeking out, concerned eyes. Girlfriend in the passenger seat holding her phone up and ready.

  “Yeah, we just—” Esteban said between breaths.

  “He tried to hurt me,” Maggie wailed. “He’s going to kill me.”

  “What the—” Esteban spun on her, but the blond guy had thrown his truck into Park and the door wide open.

  I am a monster.

  “Keep him away from me!”

  “She attacked me!” shouted Esteban as the blond guy, broad shoulders and at least a few inches taller, gave him a shove. “She’s fucking crazy!”

  “Give her some space,” said the guy. “She’s got a phone in there, okay?” He pointed at his girlfriend, tucked away in the truck and her world, safe and sane and sound. “We can call the police if we need to.”

  “Fuck this.” Esteban shrugged off the guy and stalked toward the ditch where Maggie had thrown his phone.

  The guy extended his hand. “You okay?”

  Shaking, she took it, let him pull her from the ground. Couldn’t look at Esteban. Couldn’t look at the guy. “I need to go home.” She inclined her head toward the Corolla. “This is my car.”

  “You okay to drive?” asked the guy. “We can give you a ride if you need.”

  “I need to get home,” she whispered, touching her trembling fingertips to the tender spot on her cheek. Concealer. Foundation. Blush.

  “Did he hit you?” the guy asked quietly.

  Maggie could sense him shifting his stance, ready to rescue her, ready to slay the dragon. He just didn’t know where it really was. He couldn’t see it there, right next to him. She almost laughed, though it wasn’t funny. Another nice guy. Another nice guy who shouldn’t be allowed near someone as poisonous and broken as Maggie Wallace. Margaret Juliette Wallace. Layla…what had her name been? Had she been as vicious and venomous in that form? Not that it mattered now. Layla was gone.

  “You want us to call the police?” asked the guy. “You guys live together?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need to go home.” She glanced through the window. The keys were still in the ignition. She rounded the car. Esteban was trying to fish his phone out of the murk, arm submerged to the shoulder. “Thank you for stopping,” she said to the guy without looking at him.

  She got in the car. Closed the door. Shifted the Corolla into Drive, put both hands on the wheel, stared straight ahead. Drove slowly past Esteban, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed with a new, violent hatred. Like he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her.

  She turned the radio up and headed for home.

  Friday, August 7

  Before I leave for my meeting with Drew, I tap out a quick message to Willa, who blocked my account but didn’t bother to block Mina’s. It’s Alex. I know about her past with Stefan Silva, I write. And I’m worried that he did something to Mina. If you know anything, please let the detective know. I leave my phone number, too, hoping she sees that I’m trying to find Mina, not cover up a crime.

  It’s a leap. Mina was nervous about telling me something, and it could have been as simple as having this secret book deal. But based on what Hannah said and the editor’s comments, the book is about a past Mina decided to reawaken. She reached out to Stefan, maybe to heal old wounds…or to reignite an old flame. Sure, based on what I’ve read, he has every reason to hate her guts. But the vicious fight Maggie and Esteban had, how much of that was real, and how much was drama to keep readers turning the pages? And if it was real, and if the baby wasn’t Stefan’s, then why would she seek him out at all? Why did she need to see him?

  What if she just glossed over Esteban’s paternity in the book? I’m thinking that’s more likely than not—given what Stefan said about Scott paying him off—and that the manuscript still has more to tell me about Mina’s past with Stefan Silva. As much as I try to push it from my mind, I picture my wife taking off her wedding rings, eating dinner with her parents, then driving down to Harwich for a dangerous romp with a legitimate bad boy. One who she may have hurt in the past.

  Maybe it all went wrong.

  The detective thinks he has an alibi, but judging by the way he disappeared when I showed up at the bar, he’s got people willing to cover for him.

  But he’s not the only one I’m wondering about. This stepfather character who keeps being mentioned. Who the hell is that? Is it Scott or someone else? It’s obvious that something’s awful and wrong about that character’s relationship with Maggie, and it leaves a sour lump of dread in the pit of my stomach.

  Sitting behind the wheel of my car, I leave a message for Detective Correia. Just checking in. Still wondering about Stefan Silva. I think they have some kind of past. He might have had reason to hurt her.

  It’s one of the more awkward messages I’ve ever left, but I don’t think it matters. The goal is to get her to call me back and to look at the manuscript. To at least consider the possibility that Stefan or Scott might be involved somehow. Both of them are, to use Willa’s phrase, shady as hell. Then again, so is Rose. Threatening to feed the detective some nasty insinuation about my relationship with Mina, just to get me to stop asking questions. Who is she protecting? Scott? Herself? Is she just trying to keep up appearances, or are Mina’s parents responsible for what’s happened here?

  They might have triggered another fugue.

  Or they might have done something even worse.

  And Mina isn’t off the hook here, either. Taking off her wedding rings. Arranging clandestine meetings with an ex, ex-boyfriend or ex-con, whatever. Keeping some big secret from me, even though she knows I love her. Knows I’d never hurt her.

  Once again, anger at her snakes around my heart, a poisonous vine. Maybe she’s lost or she’s hiding. Or she got herself in over her head. Either way, she was lying to me. About her past and about her present. Maybe about the future. I thought we were building it together. It’s possible she had other plans.

  As I drive out to Waltham, headquarters of the company that might not live to see the next fiscal year, I wall off the shit show that is my feelings right now. Drenched with worry and shot through with rage—at damn near everyone—I’ll be no good as I try stop my best friend from making a terrible mistake.

  I pause in the parking lot. We rented out the suite in this office park to save money. Drew wanted to be in Cambridge, at the heart of things, but I insisted we hold off. Cambridge is expensive, and I wanted us to use any capital we had to push the pilot study and extend our runway. From the very beginning, I’ve been the one anchoring us to reality. I feel like an anchor right now, sinking fast and deep.

  “Morning, Raj,” I say as I pass our assistant’s cubicle.

  He jerks around, his eyes wide. On his computer screen, CNN’s website flashes r
ed and black. There’s a picture of Mina at the top, beneath the headline Author missing, police searching for clues. “Alex. Hi. I-I didn’t think—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I mumble. I force myself to tear my eyes from my wife’s face, her pale-gray eyes, her gorgeous mouth. I incline my head toward the door on my right, the only actual office in the suite. “Is Drew ready for me?” I know he’s in; his Jaguar’s in the parking lot.

  “Yes, but he was on the phone with—”

  I barge straight into his office. He shouldn’t be talking to anyone except me. When I open the door, Drew has the receiver in his hand and is punching buttons. He pauses as I enter.

  “You look like shit,” he says to me.

  “Put the phone down.” I wait for him to obey. “You’re calling our angel funders behind my back again. What the fuck, Drew? Did you think I wouldn’t—”

  “You’ve been a little preoccupied. Meanwhile, I’m trying to save our asses.” He rubs his hands over his face, sits back in his chair, gestures for me to have a seat. “Sorry. I’m an asshole. I know my week doesn’t hold a candle to yours.”

  “You are an asshole.” I close the office door and sit down across from him. “I know this has been rough, Drew. I know we hoped for more, but Pinewell would give us enough to move forward. They want CaX429 to succeed, and they believe it might. Otherwise, they wouldn’t bother with us.”

  “It’ll succeed with or without them,” he snaps. “You know our results.”

  “In mice.”

  “You sound like fucking Blake Pierce.” Drew’s initial dislike of the Pinewell partner has obviously crystallized.

  “Fucking Blake Pierce is a fucking douchebag,” I say. “Okay. But sometimes you have to deal with douchebags if you want to achieve your goal, right? I mean, you deal with me every day.”

  He gives me a grudging smile. “You’re more of a dick than a douchebag. Anything new on Mina?”

  I let my head fall back and let out a shaky breath. “I’m not sure.”

  “Listen,” he says quietly. “You’re sure she didn’t…hurt herself?”