by S. F. Kosa
“He would never do that,” she says hoarsely, looking over at him. “He admitted when he made mistakes…”
“Why would Mina try to poison him?” I ask. “She’d never tried to hurt another person in her whole life.”
“She hurt me,” Sharon says.
“Phillip did that when he raped Mina,” I shout. “Starting when she was a little girl. Up until the day he got her pregnant. And you wonder why she tried to kill herself.”
“She seduced him!” But I can see the doubt in Sharon’s eyes.
“She was a child,” Scott reminds her. “I should have protected her, but I failed. Rose failed, too. He got away with it. He raped my daughter.”
Sharon cringes. “No,” she murmurs. “He wouldn’t.”
“He had too much control over her,” I tell her. “Because he started when she was young. He probably told her no one would believe her if she told. Or he told her they’d both get in trouble. That’s what pedophiles do, Sharon. Mina begged her mother not to have to come over here!”
“Lies,” Phillip yells, swinging his weapon toward me. “Nothing but lies!”
Sharon pivots toward him. “You told me not to come downstairs while you were giving lessons. That’s what you always said.”
“It was for concentration,” he says. “Chess requires focus.”
“You always closed the door.” Her voice is drifty now as she recalls. “Why would you need to close the door?”
“To let us concentrate!” Phillip’s voice cracks, and his face is mottled. “I was trying to teach her the game!”
“You did it, didn’t you?” she shrieks. “Did you abuse that little girl?”
“They’re liars,” Phillip says. “They’re just looking for someone to blame for what she did to me. You saw what she did to me, honey. You saved my life that night. And now I can save you—save us—from these two.”
I don’t know if it’s the twitch in his cheek or the way he can’t quite meet her eyes, but something cinches it for Sharon. “I did save you,” she says, sounding sick and weary. “That night, I did.” Then she lowers the nail gun—taking aim at her husband’s groin.
I dive for the floor as I hear the unmistakable percussive clicks of the nail gun and then the sharp crack of a gunshot. A gasp. A thump. A moan. After a beat of silence, I cautiously raise my head.
Phillip is still holding the gun. He looks down at himself in horror. Three nails have embedded themselves in his body, one in his belly and two in his right thigh.
Scott has taken shelter in the living room. He stands just out of Phillip’s line of fire, staring at the kitchen floor. “Alex,” he says. “I think she’s dead.”
I lean over. Sharon Rawlings has been shot in the head. Her face is covered with blood. She’s not moving. The nail gun lies cradled in the crook of her right arm. Her finger is still hooked in the trigger. I pull out my phone to call 911.
Phillip swings the gun toward me. “Drop it,” he says through clenched teeth.
I put the phone on the counter and raise my hands. “Phillip, let’s think this through.”
He gives me a pained smile. “Too late for that, I think.”
Not even close. “You acted in self-defense,” I say. “Scott and I can both vouch for that. Not to mention your injuries.”
Scott has moved into the doorway of the kitchen again. He’s looking down at his nail gun, maybe wondering if he can scoop it up.
Phillip must see that, too. “Step into the kitchen,” he says, aiming at Scott.
Scott obeys. He’s got his hands up.
“Phillip,” I say, glancing around again to make sure I understand the layout of the place. “You didn’t kill Mina. We both heard what Sharon said. We’ll testify to that.”
“If you think—” Scott begins, his face warped with rage.
I hold up my hand to stop him. “Scott. It’s the truth.”
Phillip keeps the gun aimed at Scott but looks at me. “She poisoned me,” he says, panting as his gaze flits down to his wounds. “I almost died. I would have died.”
“I know,” I say. “You didn’t ask for this.”
“What?” shouts Scott.
I point my finger at him and fix him with a cold, fierce look. “Shut. Up.”
He looks like he wishes he could fire a nail square between my eyes.
I focus on Phillip again. “Come on,” I say. “I’ll take you to the hospital. We’ll call the police and have them come for Sharon.”
“I won’t go to prison,” Phillip says with a groan, grimacing as one finger hovers near the nailhead poking out of his belly. A patch of blood is slowly spreading out from the epicenter of the wound, staining his T-shirt. Similar splotches decorate his shorts.
“You won’t,” I assure him. “Your wife killed Mina, and she attacked you when you found out the truth. You didn’t know anything.” I cast a warning look at Scott, who glares at me but stays quiet.
“You have every reason to hate me,” Phillip says. The gun is still up, but it’s aimed between me and Scott now, like he wants to be ready for either of us.
“I know,” I say. “But I also understand that my wife came here to kill you.”
“Alex,” Scott barks.
I ignore him. Things have gone too far to do anything else. Not ten feet from me, there’s a dead woman on the floor. Maybe right where Mina lay all those days ago.
“I would have died if Sharon hadn’t gotten me to the hospital in time,” Phillip says. He looks down at his wife’s body and squeezes his eyes shut. A soft, keening noise snakes between his lips. “Sharon.” His chest convulses with a sob.
“I know,” I say, my fists clenched but my face neutral. Calm. “I get it. Put the gun down, Phillip. We can’t help you while you’re threatening us, and we’re unarmed. Come on.”
He opens his eyes and gives me a desolate look. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He puts the gun on the counter.
Scott jerks forward, hand outstretched, jaw set.
“Don’t,” I shout. I’m halfway over the counter in a fraction of a second, hand on his chest, shoving him backward before he ruins everything.
Phillip snatches the weapon from the counter. “Self-defense,” he screeches, fumbling to get his finger on the trigger again.
“Phillip,” I say, my voice level as I get both feet back on the floor. “Phillip, he’s unarmed. Right now, you’re off the hook, man. We can explain everything that’s happened as long as you don’t fire another shot.”
“You’ll accuse me of being a pedophile,” he says, eyes red. “I know what you’ll say.”
“Mina never told anyone.” It feels like I’ve taken one of those nails straight in my damn heart. My beautiful Mina, with all those words in her head, was never able to utter the ones that might have saved her. Because of this man in front of me. “She never told a single soul. Not her parents, not her friends. It would be her word against yours.” I suck in a breath. “And she’s dead. So there’s nothing we can do.” It’s killing me, but nothing I’m saying is actually a lie.
“You’re a cold bastard,” Scott says. He spits on the floor. His eyes slide to the nail gun.
“Don’t fucking touch it,” I snap. “Or I will let Phillip shoot you.”
“Cold. Bastard.”
I know. I know I am.
“Take the clip out,” I instruct Phillip. “If you need to keep the gun, just take out the bullets. I’m going to help you, but I don’t want to get shot for my trouble. Okay?”
It might be my demeanor, calm and icy smooth. Or the fact that Scott so obviously wants to murder me. Or it could be the shock of killing Sharon or the agony of those nails driven deep into his flesh. Maybe it’s all those things. With shaking hands, Phillip removes the clip from the weapon and pockets it. Then he shoves the gun into his belt.
&nbs
p; I take a slow step forward. “The keys to the car?”
“She leaves them in the ignition,” he says, letting out a strained chuckle. “Because it’s so safe here.”
I smile at him. “Perfect. Scott will call the police, but I want to get you some medical attention as quickly as possible. We’ll sort everything out.”
He looks at me in disbelief. “You’re really going to help me.”
“I don’t have much choice in the matter. I need to do what’s right.” I reach his side. I’m a few inches taller, but I offer my hand and swing his arm over my shoulder. “And I think this’ll be faster than an ambulance.”
“You could shoot me,” he mumbles.
“I know.” I pivot us and support his weight until we’re in the entryway, between the open basement doorway and the back door. “But that would be foolish.”
He looks up at me.
“When I win, we play a different game,” I explain.
Then I shove him down the basement stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
She focused on the clock hanging over the table. Watched the second hand go around four times. Four minutes. Wasn’t that what she’d read?
He’d stopped moving at two, but she wanted to be sure.
She let go of his mouth and put a hand on his still chest. Not even the faintest flutter of life.
She stood up and looked around. Tried to see this as someone else would.
Lawrence looked small in death. Frail and pathetic. His eyes were half-open. Glazed and unfocused. She resisted the urge to do more to him. Like kick that stupid, awful, slack-mouthed expression right off his face.
With a choked sob, she turned away and set to work. Took her wineglass and the cake plate and fork to the sink. She washed them thoroughly with soap, dried them with a dishrag, and put them away. She wiped the drawer and cabinet pulls with the rag, too. Then she wiped down all the chess pieces, the chair, the woodstove, the floor where she’d fallen. Just in case.
She went to the bathroom and took his pills from the medicine cabinet. She opened the bottle and removed several pills, then left it open on the counter.
She packed up the cake, wiped everything down a second time, not a crumb left to signal she’d been there, and left the house.
She drove home, washed all the remnants of the cake down the sink, and then put all the lovely things she’d purchased—the pans, the cake spatula, the flour, the food coloring, and the spice grinder—in a black trash bag. She carried it out to the curb. Tomorrow was trash day.
When all of that was done, she sat and waited to feel something. Guilt. Sorrow. Horror. She rummaged around in her mind, almost expecting something to jump out at her. Instead, the feeling dawned slowly, just as the sun might ooze across the glassy ocean. It took a while for her to recognize, and it wasn’t until she was drifting into sleep that she finally did: peace.
Sunday, August 9
I arrive back at Mina’s cottage by two, and I take a long, hot shower. I move like I’m in a dream, my limbs heavy and loose.
Flashes of the day knife through me at random moments.
I reach for the tap, and I see my hand reaching for Phillip’s face. I hear myself saying, very softly, “Good boys are quiet boys.”
I step out of the tub, and I step back into that kitchen and meet Scott’s eyes. “Did you touch anything?” I ask. He shakes his head. I take the cake carrier off the top of the fridge.
I wipe the steam from the mirror, and I wipe the doorknob on our way out the back.
I walk into the bedroom, and I walk into the Richardses’ house. There’s Rose, ashen on the couch, mascara streaked on her cheeks. “I heard a gunshot,” she says. “I didn’t know what to do.”
I look in the mirror, and I see Scott. “Wait until I’m gone to call,” I tell him. He nods, and in those solemn, sad eyes, I see that he will never betray me for what I’ve done.
Because he knows I did it for her.
I float through the evening on a tide of Macallan. Waiting. Around nine, slightly more sober and still desperate to keep everything behind the walls holding me together, I begin to go through the cottage. I don’t touch her desk, her rings, her notepad.
But I do fire up her laptop and try to erase her search history. She’s already done it, though. I love you, I think.
I find her cake decorating kit after combing the kitchen. That’s where I discover the little brown pill bottle, label scraped away. I put on my shoes, planning to take a walk down Commercial and quietly dispose of it in a public bin, but then I think better of it.
I busy myself cleaning, my mind blank, my heart blank. I scrub that cake carrier until it’s spotless and put it back in the pantry.
She comes to the door just after eleven. “Mr. Zarabian,” says the detective, her voice mournful. “I’m sorry to come by so late.”
“I forgot to drop off my phone,” I mutter.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
I know. I take a step backward. I brace a hand on the wall.
She sighs. “This afternoon, the Truro police were called to investigate a report of a possible domestic dispute at the home of Phillip and Sharon Rawlings. They searched the property and found a body buried in the yard. About an hour ago, Scott Richards formally identified the body as that of his daughter.”
My back hits the coatrack. I close my eyes. “How did she—”
“We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report, but it looks like she was hit pretty hard on the back of the head.”
Detective Correia says other things, but I don’t hear them. I can’t. Because the dam inside me, the one that has held all these things at bay, has broken.
I will never touch her face or make love to her again.
I will never hear her voice, her laugh.
I will never be able to hold her and tell her I know what happened to her, and all I feel is awe and admiration at her strength.
I will never watch her eyes brighten when I tell her I love her.
I will live the rest of my life with a fragile hope that she already knew and that maybe, somewhere, she’s a little more at peace in the knowledge that I finished what she started.
But right now, that hope isn’t enough. I slide down the wall. My head falls into my hands. And I start to sob.
Epilogue
Maggie had thought that night would be the end, but it turned out to be the beginning of something she’d never been able to envision before. She had wondered if the guilt would bubble up or if the police would show up at her door and shout, “We know what you did!”
Neither of those things happened. Instead, it was Ivy who called Maggie up two days after the fact, sobbing, to break the news. Lawrence had a problem mixing the pain pills with alcohol, and this time, he’d taken too much. He was gone. Maggie had said she was sorry to hear that. But when Ivy had demanded she come home, Maggie had said no. And when she demanded Maggie show up at the funeral, Maggie had said no. And when she’d begun to scream at Maggie, Maggie hung up.
And then Maggie had done something she’d never thought she’d be strong enough to do. She had shown up at Ivy’s door. Face-to-face, within arm’s reach. Her possessions were all stuffed into the Corolla, and the tank was full. She left the engine running. Her heart pounded as she rang the doorbell.
Ivy opened the door, wearing black, which looked wrong and strange amid the backdrop of garland and Christmas lights sparkling all around her home, immaculate and oh so tasteful. “I knew you’d come crawling back,” she snapped.
“I’m not coming back,” Maggie said. “I’m saying goodbye.”
“I suppose you expect me to give you money? If you think you can get your hands on a single cent he left behind after treating us so—”
“No. I’m going to take care of myself from now on. You never did a very good job of it.”
“You’re ungrateful,” Ivy sneered. “You always have been.”
“And you are a terrible, warped person,” Maggie said to her mother. “I don’t forgive you for what you did to me. He might have abused me, but you did, too. You helped him.”
Ivy’s eyes glowed with rage. “You little—”
“Stop it,” Maggie said. “You’ll smear your lipstick.”
“The next time you show up here—”
“If I ever do, please slam the door in my face. I’ll be better off that way.”
She stepped back as Ivy let out a screech of rage and did exactly that.
Wearing a savage smile, she headed back to her car. When she got inside, she pulled out her phone and blocked her mother’s number.
She’d read a lot of stuff about forgiveness. She and Lori had discussed it at length. But what she’d come to, after all those months, was that it wasn’t her job to offer these people who had hurt her any kind of comfort.
Instead, it was up to her to get to her own kind of peace. A peace that involved justice. It flew in the face of everything she’d been taught growing up—turn the other cheek and forgive and forgive and forgive until there was nothing left of you but a shell—but perhaps that was why an alternative was so easy to embrace.
Maggie drove to the beach, and she parked her car. She pulled her coat tight around her and held the hood over her head to keep the wind from knocking it back. Her boots crunched in the ice-crusted sand as she leaned into the wind and trudged toward the lapping waves.
Someday, she’d graduate from college.
Someday, she’d meet a wonderful man and fall madly in love.
Someday, she’d have a child, whom she would love more than herself.
But at that moment, it was just her, here on the beach, at the edge of the world and the rest of her life. She spread her arms and turned her face to the starry sky. She was weightless as a ribbon in the breeze, carried up and out over the ocean, dancing with the waves.
