The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  She’s holding a carving knife.

  “Rose,” Scott says quietly.

  She looks back and forth between us. “I saw your car in the drive, Alex.” Her face transforms with a bright smile, teeth bared. “I was about to pull the ham out of the oven.” The knife blade glints in her hand. “Will you stay for Sunday dinner?”

  “We have to talk about Mina,” says Scott.

  “What else is there to say, dear?” she asks. “I don’t want to tell poor Alex any more tales out of school.”

  “Mina has been missing for almost two weeks,” I say quietly. “I think it’s time to put all the cards on the table.” I look around, realizing I’ve never actually been in their basement. I don’t even know how to get there. I know Scott joked about it, but…

  Rose opens her mouth, and I can almost read the words of dismissal scrawled on her tongue. But she freezes when she sees the way Scott is looking at her. “It’s ancient history,” she whispers.

  “It wasn’t for Mina,” Scott says. “She wrote a book.”

  Rose laughs. “She wrote dozens of books, you silly man. It’s a good thing that you can barely read. You’ve been spared the embarrassment. Smut. All of it.”

  “This wasn’t a romance novel,” I say. “This time, she wrote about her life. Her past. And you.”

  The derisive smile is frozen on Rose’s face. Only her eyes change. “She lied,” she says. “She lied all the time. Even as a child.”

  Scott’s face is still ruddy. His fists are still clenched. His words, when they come, are slow but steady: “Maybe she learned it from her mother.”

  “Scott,” Rose says. “You can’t possibly believe—” Her grip on the knife is white-knuckled. “I should have known. After not speaking to us since the wedding, she showed up at the door that night, expecting a free meal—”

  “She brought you a cake,” I say. It’s not only in the book—the neighbor saw her load it into the car. And the carrier wasn’t in the car when it was found. “Nicely decorated? Was it up to your standards, Rose? Did you not eat it because it wasn’t perfect? Did you save the carrier?” I glance around the kitchen with a new curiosity. “It was pretty, wasn’t it?”

  Rose blinks at me, her mouth half-open.

  Scott clears his throat. “Alex,” he says. “What cake?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lawrence paused on the threshold, looking her up and down. “Maggie,” he said quietly. His gaze rested on her head. “Your beautiful hair.” He looked so sad to find it gone, like a child might mourn a broken toy.

  She still wore her smile. “Can I come in?”

  “What? Oh, of course. Of course.” He pulled the door wide.

  She stepped inside. It was a small place, his home away from Ivy, a little bungalow nestled into the surrounding woods on a quiet road. A woodstove hulked in the corner. Next to it was a small table, and on it was a chessboard, pieces in position.

  He cleared his throat. “I know it’s not much.”

  “It’s cute. Can I put this down somewhere?”

  He directed her around the corner to the kitchen. The counters were cluttered by bottles of Jack Daniel’s and several magnums of red wine. “Can I offer you a completely legal drink? I thought about you all day on your birthday.”

  He moved a few bottles aside, and she set the cake on the counter. “I hate that it’s been so weird between us.” She sighed. “I know I kind of freaked out.”

  “When we found your hair all over the floor of your room, and the blood…” He blinked. His eyes were shiny. “I was so worried. But here you are. And you look beautiful.”

  “You weren’t mad?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve been through. I mean, Esteban Perreira.” His nostrils flared. “When I think of him touching you…”

  “He’s not important,” she said. “He never was.”

  “Yes, well. As long as you’re not seeing him anymore. He was nothing but trouble from the sound of it. Trash.”

  Her hands rested on top of the carrier. They were steady. “I’ve been working through all of it. You know, like twelve steps?” She looked him right in the eye. “Admit you’re powerless. Ask God to help you. Make a list of people you hurt. Make amends. Doesn’t it go like that?”

  He chuckled. “I’m not completely sure.” His gaze danced over the counter. “Maybe I should find out. You struggle with the bottle, too?”

  “No,” said Maggie. “Lying is my issue. Hasn’t it always been, Lawrence?”

  He nodded. “I forgive you.”

  She went to him. Hugged him gently. “Thank you. Can I offer you a piece of cake?”

  “Absolutely. Drink?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She cut him a thick slice and laid it on a saucer she pulled from the cabinet. He poured her a half tumbler of wine and a full one for himself. “I’m not supposed to drink with the pills. My doc says I have to lay off. But this is a special occasion.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” she asked.

  “Right down the hall.” He waved her in the right direction as he accepted the cake and snagged a fork from a drawer.

  She padded down the hall and ducked into the bathroom. Opened the medicine cabinet and surveyed the contents. Smiled with relief. With triumph. Closed it carefully, quietly. Flushed the toilet and washed her hands.

  By the time she emerged, he’d already taken a bite. “This is wonderful, Maggie. It’s like we’re celebrating your birthday, just a bit belated.”

  “Exactly,” Maggie replied. “How’s your back been? Do the pills help?”

  He gave her a rueful look and rubbed at it. “Some days I can barely get out of bed. Today’s not a bad day, though.” He took another large bite of cake. “Getting better by the moment.”

  She picked up her tumbler of wine and held it up. “To good days.”

  He clinked his glass with hers. “And good company. Are you going to have some?” He looked down at the cake.

  “If you had any idea how much frosting I ate as I made it this afternoon…” She rolled her eyes and rubbed her stomach. “I’m kind of regretting it now.”

  “I might not be able to keep myself from having another piece,” he said as he carried the cake and his wine over to the little table by the woodstove.

  She sat down across from him. The chess set lay between them.

  “It’s been a long time since we played,” he commented.

  “I’d be up for a match if you want.”

  His face brightened. He’d finished the cake and scraped one last bit of frosting from the plate. “Black or white?”

  “You go ahead.” She nodded at the white pieces arrayed in front of him. “It’s your board.”

  They began. She nudged each piece with the back of a fingernail; inch by inch, they slid into position.

  Lawrence touched her knee under the table. “You remember how we used to play?” he asked after taking a long sip of his wine.

  She kept her leg still. She kept her hands still. Good girls are quiet girls. “You think I’d forget? If you win, we play a different game.”

  He gave her a silly smile. He probably meant it to be flirtatious. “I’m so glad you’re here.” His fingers squeezed.

  She smiled back and moved a piece.

  He grunted. “You sure you want to let me have the center like that?” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Do you want me to win?”

  “The opening was the Modern Defense,” she murmured as she began her attack, already too late for him to counter effectively. How many games had she played on her phone since August? How many times had she done this?

  “You laid yourself a trap,” he said.

  It was a trap. But not for her. “I’m not a beginner anymore.”

  And ten moves later, h
e sat back. He shook his head, looking baffled. “I had the center. I had the advantage,” he said, slurring. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?” She made her penultimate move. “Check. You’ve lost a step.”

  He rolled his eyes and knocked over his king. “Down he goes.” He winced and put his hand on his stomach. His skin had shed its color.

  “Down he goes,” she murmured as she began to nudge the pieces back into position. “Another game?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on. You always want another game if I win.”

  He squinted at the clock over the table like he couldn’t quite get his eyes to focus. “Should’ve eaten dinner before having all that cake and wine.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped,” Maggie said.

  He was breathing quickly now. Panting. Sweat glistened on his pale forehead.

  “Do you want another slice?” she asked.

  He swallowed like he still had a mouthful. “Don’t feel good.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s because I ground up an entire bottle of OxyContin and put it in the frosting.”

  For a moment, they stared across the little table at each other. His face drew up like a stage curtain, the corners of his lips rising to show his teeth. “You bitch,” he rasped.

  Hands clawed, he lunged across the table at her.

  Sunday, August 9

  Rose sits on the couch with dry eyes and a slack mouth. Scott presses a drink into her hand. She swallows down the amber liquid and shudders. “I just wanted all of it to be in the past. That was all I wanted. For all of us to move forward and stick together.”

  “I’ve always stood by you,” says Scott. “Sometimes when I shouldn’t have.”

  Her brow furrows. “I might have made mistakes, but—”

  “In her book, Mina says she was abused,” says Scott.

  Rose twitches. She looks out the window. “It was all in the past,” she whispers.

  “Rose,” Scott says, horror breaking across his features like a sunrise. “Was she telling the truth?”

  “Of course she wasn’t!” She shoots to her feet and sways. “She was always good at lying. She made up stories even as a child.”

  “You sound so offended,” I say. “Is that because you always tell the truth?”

  Her head rocks back as if I’ve punched her.

  “If the truth is so important,” Scott says, “you shouldn’t have slept with another man and lied to your husband about it. For years.”

  She blinks at him in apparent shock. “Scott, I—”

  “You think I never knew it, Rose? You think that little of me?”

  “You can’t really believe—”

  “That you’re a liar and a whore?” shouts Scott.

  The glass shatters against the wall before I register that Rose has thrown it. Now she looks as startled as the rest of us. She smooths her hair. “You aren’t completely innocent,” she says to her husband.

  “I never cheated on you.”

  “You might as well have! You were never home! I was always alone.”

  “And Mina caught you in the act of having an affair,” I say.

  Both of them turn to me, eyes questioning. “No,” Rose says, grimacing. “He…he threatened to tell Scott. Phillip said he would keep it all a secret if I gave him what he wanted.”

  What he wanted. The words land in my head like grenades.

  “Can’t you understand that?” she asks, focused on me. “Can’t you understand that he was going to destroy my family if I didn’t—”

  “He wanted Mina,” I say in a hollow voice. “That’s it, isn’t it?” Because now it makes sense. Dead father. Nightmare stepfather. Details changed to protect the guilty. In Mina’s mind, Scott was dead. He wasn’t at home, wasn’t there to protect her when she needed him most.

  “Phillip just wanted to play chess,” she says, pleading. “It was just chess. Lessons for her. She’d shown so much promise!”

  “You sent your daughter over there to protect yourself,” I say, my voice rising. Phillip is Lawrence. Phillip is Lawrence. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know!”

  All the blood has drained from Scott’s face. “Did you know, Rose?”

  “No!” she howls. She holds up her hands as he takes a step toward her. “It was only chess!”

  “She quit chess,” I say.

  “She told me she didn’t want to play anymore,” Scott says. “And that was why, wasn’t it?”

  Rose has her hands in her hair, mussing her perfect hairdo. “That can’t be right,” she says with a moan. “She said she wanted to stop the lessons. She had such a tantrum over it, but she had so many in those days. She’d gone from being a sweet, obedient girl to a moody, sullen child I could barely abide. I was happy to have her out of the house for a few hours each day! And Phillip…”

  “He threatened to tell Scott if you stopped the lessons,” I guess. “So you didn’t listen to your own daughter. And then you sent her away to boarding school.”

  “That was her idea!” shrieks Rose. “She got the brochures, she applied for the scholarship, she pushed the whole thing!”

  Probably because she was so determined to escape. It feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing me in the heart. “You didn’t ask why?”

  “I thought it would be good for her,” says Rose, her voice breaking. “Her grades were dropping. She didn’t want to do her activities anymore. She thought a new school would help, and I supported her!” She looks over at me. “She really wrote about it? Are you sure it was the truth?”

  “I believe it,” snaps Scott.

  “But he’s lived next to us all these years,” she says weakly. “All these years. And I believed him. It was just chess.”

  “Rose,” I say. Somehow, my voice is steady despite the truth I see in her eyes. She had a sense of what was happening to Mina but was too afraid of having her affair exposed to do anything about it. “The pregnancy. When she was eighteen.”

  “It was that boy’s,” says Scott. “Stefan Silva. That’s what you told me.” He’s looking at Rose, almost begging her to agree. “That’s why we got him to sign the papers and give up his rights to it.”

  “Of course it was that boy’s,” says Rose.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Why, because she wrote about it in one of her smutty books?” Rose’s hair is mussed. Her mascara is smudged. But she looks defiant right now. Daring me to tell her that Mina’s words are truth.

  “She went through more than you’re willing to admit.” I’m not about to desert Mina now. I’m her voice here, and I trust the story she wrote. Though I can barely breathe for the dread that’s rising inside me, I believe she’s leading us straight to the truth. “Because some of those awful things, you put her through. And part of you knows that you failed her. You handed her over to a pedophile.”

  Rose looks at Scott, probably hoping for a defense of some kind. Instead, he looks like someone’s shot him in the gut. “Phillip went to pick her up from school for the break,” he says weakly. “Her senior year. Remember? You had a church picnic, and I was working. He drove out to Connecticut to get Mina. I even paid him for the gas.”

  “No,” whispers Rose. “No.”

  “She wasn’t the same when she came back. You even noticed it. And then she disappeared a week or so later. This was why.”

  “No!”

  “This is why!” roars Scott, the words exploding out of him with the heat of decades of repressed agony.

  Rose bows her head. Her shoulders shake.

  With a strangled, animal cry, Scott throws open the back door and begins to run.

  And when I see where he’s headed, I’m right behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She hadn’t expected this kind of attack, a
nd she wasn’t quite ready. When his weight hit her, she fell backward. The back of her head slammed into the woodstove. White and red bloomed in her vision. Her bones rattled as she hit the floor with him on top of her, all his weight.

  All his weight.

  His body on hers.

  Every cell in her body understood what happened next. Every shred of muscle locked, a paralysis of helplessness.

  There is fight and there is flight. But there is also freeze.

  That’s what Lori had taught her. That her mind wasn’t so different from a possum’s in some ways. She hadn’t let these things happen to her—she hadn’t been willing. Instead, her body had learned to play dead to keep her alive. The circuits in her mind had all linked up to dig those pathways deep, to make the response reflexive, requiring no thought or planning. A survival mechanism. A way to live through what was happening to her. Her brain had taught itself to detach, to float away, to build another world while her body was in use.

  Her eyes burned. Her lungs burned. Somewhere, deep inside her mind, was one faint thought: Move. Please. Move.

  After all her planning and all that work, his body was on hers again.

  His hips grinding into hers. His acid breath in her face.

  Move.

  His chest crushing hers.

  Move.

  She opened her eyes. His scarlet face hovered over hers. Grimacing. Terror exploded inside her. Forbidden tears blurred her vision. It should have been enough. Why hadn’t it been enough? She’d measured everything out. Powdered it all in that spice grinder. Calculated the relative deadliness of each fucking slice.

  But now his hands were around her throat. She couldn’t pull any air into her tortured lungs. Her hands closed over his thick wrists. He was so strong. He’d always been too strong.

  Her ears filled with a droning, heavy buzz. Her skull swam with a scrum of random thoughts and memories. The waves at Race Point. The sun over the sea. Clouds in a heartbreakingly blue sky. Skis clacking together as she rode in the chair lift, a warm hand enveloping hers. The last time she’d felt truly safe.