“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“Now I’ll never be able to show my face in there again!”
Riley starts to speak, fumbles over the first word, then says, “I—I think it would be good if we talk about this when you’re feeling better.”
“Really? Again with the alcohol? This is such bullsh—”
“I didn’t mean it like that! I meant because you’re so angry. Samantha! You’re acting like a child!”
“Me? I’m acting like a child? Why are you being so mean? Why are you—”
“SAMANTHA, SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
There’s nothing but deafening silence between them.
Looking into Samantha’s tearful eyes, Riley sees concussive rage about to go off and knows this has gone too far.
Way too far.
42
Riley rises from the chair situated opposite Patricia’s. She straggles to the bookcase, takes down a hardback from the shelf: The Psychology of Body Language and Micro Expressions.
She flips through it. Patricia watches.
Riley puts the book back in its place, then chooses a different chair—obviously the wrong one, because no matter how much she moves around in it, comfort seems elusive. She springs up, chooses another chair. But not the original one.
“Riley,” Patricia says, “is something wrong?”
“What gives you that idea?”
Patricia lets her question stand.
Riley says, “Look, I’ve seen enough therapists in the last few years to know how it works here. I ask a question, then you answer my question with another question. And somehow through this crazy dance, I’m supposed to self-actualize so I can better fit into a society where everyone else is screwed up, too. Isn’t that how it goes?”
Squaring her sight on Riley, Patricia says, “Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“See? A question with a question.”
Patricia waits.
Riley stretches out her legs and crosses one over the other: she deliberates. It’s hard opening up to the person whose job is to examine and judge Riley’s mental competency. Not exactly fertile ground for trust building. But since she and Erin no longer talk feelings, her options seem scant.
Patricia seems like a lot less work. She might even have helpful advice about how to fix this mess with Samantha. Riley gives it a shot. She draws a breath and holds it. She lets the breath out, then says, “So, I made a new friend, and we were getting along fine, and then we got into this big fight.”
“About what?”
As Riley tells the story, a conflicted expression gradually builds across Patricia’s face.
“You have a look,” Riley tells her.
“Which look is that?”
“Not the Therapist Stare—the other one—like you’re getting ready to take me to task.”
Patricia pauses as if carefully weighing her words before speaking.
Slap, slap, slap.
Riley’s lips twitch.
Patricia says, “I understand your frustration with Samantha. What I’m wondering about are the finer details. The interaction.”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Well . . .” Patricia looks into her lap, then up at Riley. “You do have a choice in situations like this.”
“Yeah, I know. Not to get the hair she wanted me to.”
“True, but this isn’t just about the hair. I’m talking about how you responded to her.”
“She provoked me and forced me to act that way.”
“Did she?” Patricia’s knowing grin challenges Riley. “Or did you force you to act that way?”
“She was drinking. She insulted me.”
“I’m not saying Samantha did everything right.”
“But?”
“What I’m saying is that you had a choice about how to respond. Just like she had a choice how to give you the information about a new hairstyle.”
“You mean I overreacted?”
“I’m not here to judge you, and I only have what you’ve explained to me. So maybe you can look back at what happened and ask yourself that question.”
Riley concentrates on Patricia for several seconds, again questioning her own perceptions, then drops her gaze and fusses with her hands.
Once more, Patricia waits.
Riley says, “I probably overreacted.”
“Probably?”
“No, I did. But I felt like she baited me.”
“And you took it.”
Riley lets out a long sigh and says, “Okay. You’re right. I could have handled the situation better.”
“But do you get what I’m trying to do here?”
“Make me see the disagreement more clearly.”
“Well, that, but I’m also trying to help you recognize you can become empowered in situations where you feel powerless.”
“I guess I never thought about it that way. But do you think Samantha was telling the truth? About her good intentions?”
“I wasn’t there,” Patricia reminds her with a smile. “So again, that’s for you to decide, but let me ask something: How long have you known her?”
“We met a few weeks ago.”
“That’s really not a lot of time to know someone well.”
“It’s . . .” Riley again becomes restless in her chair. “It’s hard to explain. We have things in common. Our histories have brought us closer together.”
“Sounds kind of mystical, don’t you think?”
“Not to me.”
The Therapist Stare. “And how old is Samantha?”
“Early twenties.”
Patricia’s head pulls away, and her shoulders jut forward.
Riley’s eyes get tight and narrow. “Do you see a problem with that?”
“I just didn’t realize she’s half your age.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Okay . . .” Patricia backs off. “Another question: Have you had a chance to observe how she interacts with others?”
“Why?”
“You asked about her intentions at the salon. Interactions can be a good way to view people as they really are instead of how they want you to think they are.”
“Meaning?”
“As Dave Barry says, if someone is nice to you but rude to the waiter, they are not a nice person.”
Riley revisits the way Samantha treated the salesgirl after becoming irritated with her and says, “Is that Samantha?”
Patricia shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’m just helping you navigate through the disagreement and see all sides. You were both angry and unreasonable, so one argument probably isn’t an accurate gauge to judge her by, just like it isn’t for you.”
Riley nods, awareness taking shape.
“What I’d suggest is that maybe it would be a good idea to know her better before making definitive decisions about her character.”
43
Riley is about to make breakfast when she hears knocking on her door. She’s not expecting anyone. And with the way life has gone lately, she’s not too keen on finding out who may be on the other side.
She creeps toward the peephole, peers through it, then lurches away from the giant, shifting eyeball that looks as if it’s trying to snoop inside her apartment. She steps to one side of the door and out of view.
Two knocks, harder, then, “Riley? You in there?”
Samantha? What is she doing here?
Riley tries to recapture oxygen amid her rapid-fire heartbeats. After their disagreement, a visit from Samantha is not only unexpected—it’s enough to cause a damned stroke. And not only that. She’s taken great pains to keep Samantha from seeing this place. Now, here she is.
Riley unlocks and removes the security bar, gives the dead bolt a twist, then opens the door.
Samantha stands in the hallway, holding a large gift basket. On her face, she wears a remorseful expression. She raises the basket higher and says, “I come bearing caffeine. A
nd to apologize.”
Riley considers the basket, overflowing with what looks to be an expensive assortment of coffees and dark chocolates.
“This is getting kind of heavy,” Samantha says. “Would it be okay if I bring it in?”
Riley opens the door wider, then steps aside to let her in.
After gingerly placing the basket on the dining room table, Samantha says, “I know this is ridiculously bad timing, but would it be okay if I use the little girls’ room right quick?” A self-effacing smile. “I shouldn’t have downed that giant coffee so fast before coming here. Am I ever paying a price for it.”
Riley points to the bathroom. As soon as Samantha is inside, Riley rushes to the window, hides the binoculars, then pushes the chair away.
Several minutes pass, but Samantha still hasn’t come out. Knocking on the door, Riley asks, “Is everything okay in there?”
The toilet flushes. The door opens. And Samantha comes out, letting her demure expression apologize for taking so long. She passes Riley, then proceeds to the living room and sits.
Riley follows and does the same.
Awkward silence for a moment.
Then Samantha says, “I feel really bad about what happened.”
“Me too,” Riley quickly replies. “I thought it over and realized I didn’t handle myself as well as I could have.”
“It was just a misunderstanding. That’s all.”
“Right.” Riley smiles, but the smile loses steam when she sees the woman’s five bandaged fingers. “Samantha! What on earth happened?”
“Oh, it was nothing.” She raises her hand, looks at her fingers. “It was so stupid. I wasn’t paying attention while I was cooking dinner, had an accident, and burned them.
“You burned all of your fingers?”
“Yeah. I reached for the pot handle, but it was super hot, and my hand slipped.” A sad, bashful grin. “Guess I was more upset about this than I’d thought.”
Samantha? Cooking? Riley has seen the inside of her fridge. All those drinks and not a speck of food in sight.
I do a lot of takeout. It’s easier.
“This is why I don’t cook much,” Samantha says as if reading Riley’s thoughts. “I’ll be paying better attention next time I try—that’s for sure. Anyway, you were right. I had too much to drink, and I didn’t mean to insult your hair. What I was trying to ask was why you were so attached to the old style. It seemed to make sense in my head at the time.” She scrunches her nose. “Not so much now.”
“Really, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s really not. Drinking can make me act a little badly sometimes. Like, oversensitive? I guess the hair salon felt like a big letdown because I was having so much fun before that.”
“You were.”
“No, no . . . I meant us. We were. Shit, I’m so nervous that I can’t even say things right. Anyway, ever since we met, I’ve felt so much hopelessness in you. Defeat, even. And it broke my heart. It really did. But the second we walked into the salon, all that changed. Your face lit up, and it was so great to see. Then you got frustrated, and before either of us knew it, everything went sideways. By then, it was all such a mess that I didn’t know how to get us out of it. You know?”
“I think we both felt that way.”
“But honestly, I want you to understand that my frustration came from a good place. I just didn’t express it very well. I guess I’m a lot more like my creations than I’d realized.”
“How’s that?”
“A work in progress. Look, I know I’m not perfect, but I don’t want to lose this friendship. I really don’t. So what do you think? Bygones and all that?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I want to make it up to you. We can go back to the mall and buy something nice for your job interview.”
“I’ve already got plenty, thanks to you. Maybe we should wait and see if I actually get an interview?”
“Maybe you already do,” Samantha says through a mischievous grin. “A friend of mine has an opening, so I put in a good word for you.”
“Samantha . . . Wow, I—are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“When?”
Samantha produces a slip of paper, hands it over, and says, “Be there tomorrow at ten a.m.”
There’s only a name and address, so Riley asks, “What’s the job?”
“Oh. Sorry. It’s for a waitress. I know that’s not the most glamorous job, but at least it’ll give you some cash to get on your feet.”
“Believe me, it’s fine. You have no idea how much this means. Seriously, it couldn’t have come at a better time. Thank you so much.”
“I’m just happy to help.”
“What kind of restaurant is it?”
Samantha is about to answer when a loud bang goes off near the door, scaring the bejesus out of them both. When they investigate, they find Riley’s security bar lying across the floor.
“Oh my Lord!” Samantha says, fanning herself. She clears her throat and asks, “So what’s up with Mr. Heavy Metal here?”
“You know . . . the neighborhood,” Riley explains, simplifying a conversation much too involved to finish.
“About that . . . ,” Samantha says. “How come you never told me we were neighbors?”
Riley feels her posture crumple a little. “I was embarrassed.”
“Heck, I don’t care about that. I like you for you, not where you live.”
“Right,” Riley says, relief in her tone. Then she asks, “How did you know where I live, anyway?”
Samantha quirks a brow. “You can learn pretty much anything about a person on the internet.”
44
The interview isn’t for another hour, and Riley decides to leave early so she’s not late. But when she opens the door, an ugly surprise greets her.
BITCH!
Written in red spray paint across the door. Red: the color of fury.
She staggers into reverse. Whoever did this could be the same person who wrote on her car door, maybe her headboard, too.
But when did this happen?
The writing wasn’t there when Samantha left last evening. She touches a finger to one of the letters—it’s dry. The message has been here for a while. She considers another possibility. Could Samantha have returned yesterday to do it?
That doesn’t make much sense.
Samantha didn’t come over to cause trouble—she came to make peace, to smooth the relationship over. And there’s certainly no shortage of other possible suspects. The public hates Riley, and the watcher isn’t likely in love with her, either.
Or should that be watchers?
Aileen was hesitant to let Riley live here because of potential security issues, and Riley did her best to handle the breaches herself to ease those fears, but she can no longer afford to keep quiet. With each passing day, her security is more at risk. She needs to alert her. Start being proactive instead of reactive. Besides, Riley has kept a low profile in this building. Aileen hasn’t even met her yet.
On her way downstairs, she decides she should first talk to Wendy. After three hard and fast knocks, she waits for the peephole to darken.
It does not, and she feels her patience unravel. She knocks harder this time and yells, “Wendy, please answer! This is very important! I need your help!”
She hears footsteps, then light evaporates from the peephole.
“I need to know if you saw anyone suspicious coming or going from my apartment during the last twenty-four hours. Anyone at all.”
“No, but it’s not like I stand here looking out my peephole all day long.”
“I know you don’t. Just thought I’d check. Can you do me a favor, though? If you notice anyone else coming or going from my apartment, will you let me know?”
“What’s going on? Do I need to be worried?”
“No. You don’t. But I do.” Riley takes in a shaky breath, releases it. “This is about my safety. So can you do that for m
e?”
“I can’t leave my place,” Wendy reminds her.
“I’m not asking you to, but if you hear anyone coming down the hall, look out through your peephole to see who it is. And keep track of the time when it happens.”
Riley writes down her cell number on a slip of paper, then slides it under the door. “And if you see someone trying to break into my apartment, dial 911, then me.”
“I’d have to open my door and look out. They could see me, then I’ll be in danger.”
“Wendy. I risked my life to help you during the fire. I’ve made a commitment to take care of you. Do you think we can do that for each other?”
Wendy’s silence indicates she’s wavering.
“Besides,” Riley pushes harder, “do you really want someone dangerous on our floor?”
“Fine. Okay. I’ll do it.”
A few seconds later, light flickers through the peephole, then a slip of paper slides out from under the door.
It’s Wendy’s grocery list.
Riley takes it. She’s about to proceed to Aileen’s office but, after glancing back at her apartment, notices her door is cracked open a few inches.
She didn’t leave it like that.
There’s no way I would, not after what just happened . . . Or did I?
She considers the second stairwell at the other end of the hallway. If someone slipped in and sneaked away from that side, would she have noticed?
She hurries back to her place, pushes the door open wider, and her fingertips feel a little cold, a little numb.
This doesn’t look right.
Using caution, she treads inside, scans the apartment, and stops in place. It’s not just her fingertips feeling the chill anymore—prickly goose bumps run up and down her arms.
The doll has vanished from her side table. She thinks about its repositioning last week. This is no lapse in recall, no slip of the mind, and certainly no overreaction. With one part hesitation, one part fear, her vision drifts toward the foot of her curtains, afraid of what she may find.
What She Doesn't Know: A Psychological Thriller Page 12
