She'll Never Tell

by Hunter Morgan

  Her thoughts strayed to her sister again. How could Phoebe have stolen from her? Had she been that desperate for money? For what? And if so, why hadn't she just asked Jake if she could borrow from them? And what about the carbon monoxide in the house? Why would Phoebe have tried to kill her? Surely not to cover the theft? That didn't make sense.

  Marcy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop thinking about it because the more she thought, the more confused she became. She tried to relax, to think about the restaurant, to think about the waves crashing on the beach only a few blocks away. Sleep still eluded her.

  * * *

  Claire carried the file down the dim hallway to her office and flipped on the bright fluorescent overheads. She cringed as they flashed on and filled the room with artificial light. It had taken less than an hour to find the file; pretty amazing considering the way records were kept around here. She was pushing to switch to computer files and do away with paper, but with the budget she had to work with and the old bat who was in charge of record-keeping, it was a miracle she wasn't hauling stone tablets to her office.

  Claire checked her watch as she slid into her chair behind her desk. Twelve-thirty a.m. Jake Edmond had called her from his cell phone to say that they were staying at the Seascape Hotel on Driftwood, and that as an extra precaution, he had dropped off his family, parked his car in the apartment building garage down the street and was walking to the hotel.

  Claire knew Marcy didn't want to think the worst of her sister, but she could tell that Jake already did. Either he knew Phoebe better than Marcy, or he was just more realistic. Either way, he had been clear on the phone. He wanted Phoebe picked up, and he intended to press charges on the theft once the situation at the house was investigated. He wanted her locked up until they had a better idea what was going on. He didn't want to take any more chances with his wife's life, and Claire couldn't blame him.

  She flipped open the manila file on her desk and glanced at Marcy's original accident report. It contained the usual information: the time it was called in, the exact location. Single car accident, single passenger ejected from the car. Routine, in a way. It was scary how life and death could be trivialized to such generic words on paper.

  She flipped to another page. The first officer on the scene's initial observations, written in McCormick's stiff, masculine print. The details were pretty grim. Marcy had been pulled from the water by a guy in a tow truck only a minute or two behind her. She hadn't been breathing when he fished her out. He had started CPR. The emergency medical technicians had resuscitated her at the scene. It was unknown exactly how long her brain had gone without oxygen. Severe facial trauma was noted.

  But these details weren't what she was looking for. Claire went through several more pages, looking for the specific report she knew had to be here. She grabbed the can of Diet Pepsi on her desk and took a swig. It was sweet and flat and disgusting. She forced it down and went on with her search.

  She found the copy of the report from Alan's Auto at the very bottom of the file. Of course, she didn't know how much help it was going to do her; she knew nothing about cars or brakes. She read the report in Alan Junior's scrawled handwriting. Brake failure. Brake fluid leak due to partially severed brake line, it read. The "report" was actually a bill for his services. $42. Then there was an arrow with a word written in the margin. She turned the piece of paper around to get a better look. It was an old-fashioned carbon copy. Hard to read. What did it say?

  Intensive?

  Claire looked away, rubbed her eyes. That didn't make any sense. What was intensive? She stared at the word again.

  Not intensive. It said "intentional", followed by a question mark. Alan Junior had noted that he was concerned the brake lines might have been cut intentionally. Apparently the report from Alan's Auto had been filed properly, but never read. She knew she'd never seen it.

  "Son of a bitch," Claire muttered.

  No... you little bitch is what she should have said.

  Claire got up from her chair. This was all circumstantial at this point, of course, but she had enough to bring Phoebe Matthews in for questioning. She was putting out an APB for her and Marcy's vehicle.

  She jerked open the door to her office and headed for the fishbowl. She was going to order the all-points bulletin, and then she was going out and looking for Marcy's SUV herself. It was the least she could do, considering the evidence lying on her desk.

  * * *

  The cell phone beside the bed jingled, startling Marcy. She must have been half asleep. She grabbed it and punched the receiver button to keep it from ringing again and waking Jake or the children. She glanced at the bedside clock. One thirty-two the red numbers glowed.

  "H... hello?" Marcy whispered.

  Jake rolled over on his side away from her.

  "Marcy."

  It was so like her own voice that it could only be one person. Marcy felt a shiver trickle up her spine. "Phebes?"

  "You just won't die, will you?" her sister said. Her voice was a mixture of sarcasm and indignation.

  Marcy sat up on the bed, swinging her legs over the side onto the floor. Her sister's words chilled her. She really was sick, wasn't she? "Phoebe, where are you?"

  "Don't worry," Phoebe sighed. "I'm not coming back to get you."

  "I... I didn't say that."

  "I give up. You win."

  Marcy glanced at the kids in bed only two feet from her. Ben stirred. She got up and stood in the middle of the room in the dark in indecision for a moment. She had to go somewhere to talk. The bathroom? No. She was suddenly sick to her stomach. That little room was too confining; besides, it was tile. If she talked to Phoebe on the phone, her voice would echo. She might wake the kids.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean, I win?" Marcy unlatched the metal bar that prevented someone outside the hotel room from coming in, even with a key, and turned the doorknob. Outside, the air seemed cool, refreshing, despite the high June temperature. She flipped the mechanism so she wouldn't lock herself out and then walked over to lean on a railing along the walkway that ran the length of the hotel between the rooms that opened to the outside and the parking lot.

  "I mean you win. You get it all. The man, the cute, smart little brats, one boy, one girl, of course. One big freaking happy family. And the successful restaurant," Phoebe finished caustically.

  Marcy brushed her hair from her face. "You're not making any sense."

  "Don't you get it?" Phoebe shouted.

  "No. No, I don't get it," Marcy gripped the cell phone. "Tell me where you are and I'll come. We'll talk."

  Phoebe laughed, but she didn't sound like herself. "Tell you where I am? What? So you can send the cops after me?" She sounded... hollow. Gone was her vibrancy. Her confidence. She sounded scared. Alone.

  "I wouldn't do that."

  "Why the hell not? I would, if I were you." Phoebe laughed that lifeless laugh again. "Of course, that's the crux of the whole matter to begin with, isn't it?"

  Marcy didn't understand what Phoebe was talking about. She was scaring her.

  "It's about being you, you twit," Phoebe said when Marcy didn't respond. "Don't you get it? I always wanted to be you. You always had everything going for you. You were always so smart and I was so stupid. You always made all the right choices. I made the wrong one every time."

  "Don't say that," Marcy whispered. "It's not true. I was fat. Ugly—"

  "You think I wouldn't have traded my face for yours to have what you had?" Phoebe cried.

  Marcy squeezed her eyes shut. She had never had any idea her sister felt this way. It made no sense, of course, but that really didn't matter at this point, did it?

  "And you always got all the nice guys, didn't you?" Phoebe continued. "And I ended up with the ones who just wanted to get in my panties."

  "Phoebe—"

  "You don't know what it was like," she said, lowering her voice. She sounded so desperate. "I wanted him so badly for so many
years."

  "You wanted who?" Marcy demanded, suddenly angry. She was tired of her sister's dramatics. Tired of letting her control her feelings.

  "Jake. Jake, of course."

  * * *

  "Marcy," the Bloodsucker crooned, slowing down his car as he turned onto the dark street. "Marcy, I see you. I'm coming for you."

  He could feel his blood pumping in his heart. Pulsing. Throbbing in his head and in his groin.

  He still could not believe his good luck. Marcy in the darkness. No one around. No witnesses to see her disappear.

  Because he was clever. Smarter than them all. There would be no witnesses until he was done and then the whole world would be witness to his cunning. His brilliance.

  The Bloodsucker felt stickiness on his fingertips. Pudding from the chocolate éclair. He couldn't be leaving evidence anywhere, now could he? He licked his fingers greedily and gazed up to look at her again, so lost in her phone conversation that she didn't see him coming.

  * * *

  "Jake?" Marcy whispered, shocked by her sister's confession. "You wanted my husband?"

  "I wanted him long before he was your husband," Phoebe ground out. "Don't you remember? He was my boyfriend first. I introduced you two. We were out—"

  "No. No, we met at the bar. It was a whole group," Marcy said, wracking her brain. It had been so long ago. "He wasn't your boyfriend. He was just some guy you had met in Econ class."

  "But I wanted Jake to be my boyfriend," Phoebe whispered, and then her voice caught in her throat. "He was so sweet. Such a damned nice guy. I wanted him to love me, to look at me the way he looked at you."

  Marcy heard the sound of gravel crunch, and she looked up to see a car, in the parking lot, pass the hotel. Nothing else was stirring. She turned around, leaned against the railing. "Phoebe, I never knew."

  "Of course you didn't know!" She took a shuddering breath. "When you went into the hospital to have the kids, I prayed. I prayed you would die in childbirth, and I would be there to comfort Jake. To console him."

  "No, Phoebe," Marcy whispered, horrified she would say such a thing. Marcy loved Phoebe. She had always loved her. Didn't sisters love each other?

  "But you didn't die. Because you're strong. Stronger than I could ever be. So I decided to help you along."

  Marcy felt her throat constrict with emotion. Emotion so powerful that she couldn't quite identify it. Regret, pity. She felt so guilty. And then there was the anger, the anger that was bubbling up inside her. "You tried to kill me in the house tonight?" she demanded. "How could you!"

  Phoebe gave a little laugh. "Oh, sweetie, that wasn't the first time. I'm not only lousy with men and investments and business ventures, but I'm also lousy at trying to kill people."

  Marcy heard Phoebe pause and the click of a disposable lighter. Her sister was lighting a cigarette.

  "You know," Phoebe said. "I tore my favorite denim skirt climbing under your minivan in the parking lot where you worked to cut those brake lines. It's not really a cut, of course. You're supposed to slit them so the brake fluid drains out slowly. That way the driver is already on the road by the time the brakes fail. You'd be surprised the information you can find on the Internet."

  Marcy shuddered. "You caused the accident that did this to me?"

  "Did what?" Phoebe snapped viciously. "Made you thin and beautiful?" She chuckled without humor. "Joke was on me, huh? I try to kill you, or at least turn you into a vegetable so your husband will divorce you and marry me, and you walk out of the hospital looking like some movie star."

  "Phoebe, you have to tell me where you are. You have to turn yourself in. You're sick. You need help. I can get you help if you'll just—"

  "I didn't call for your help, Sis," Phoebe said acidly. "I've been calling you for years to help me and look where it's gotten me." She inhaled deeply on her cigarette, and Marcy heard her exhale. "I just called to tell you that I left your SUV near the diner. My stuffs inside, but you can sell it, give it to the Salvation Army, whatever."

  Near the diner? That was only two blocks from the hotel. Was Phoebe out on the street? Marcy ran barefoot down the walkway, stepping out into the parking lot. She looked up the street in the direction of the diner. "You're not at your new apartment?" she stalled, hoping she might see her sister on the street.

  "There's no new apartment," Phoebe mocked. "No new job. I made that all up." She spoke now as if Marcy were a foolish child who had to be handed an explanation. "When Jake found out tomorrow morning that you were dead, poor thing, he was going to call me. Just like he did when you were in the accident. He was going to call me, and I was going to be there to comfort him. What was I going to need my own apartment for?"

  "Phoebe, listen to yourself," Marcy begged, wiping at her tears. "You know you don't mean what you're saying."

  Phoebe made a sobbing sound. "I thought it would be just like before. He was going to call me, and I would come back to live with him and the kids. Come back to take care of them. With you gone, it would have only been a matter of time before Jake fell in love with me. Don't you see that, Marcy?"

  "No, what I see is my sister, who I love, who needs help. I should have seen it sooner. I don't care about the money, I only—"

  "You know about the money?" Phoebe's voice quivered.

  "I know," Marcy admitted softly. "But the money doesn't matter to me. You do."

  A flash of light caught Marcy's eye and she glanced up. Headlights. A car. The same one she had seen moments ago? She wondered if she should go back into the hotel room. But what if her sister was only a block or two away?

  "Phoebe, please tell me where you are."

  "I told you. Your car is right on the street near the diner."

  "I don't care about my car," Marcy cried. "I just—"

  "Hey sugar," Phoebe said. But she wasn't talking to Marcy; her voice had changed. There was someone else there with her.

  Marcy stepped off the sidewalk, into the street. If she walked to the stop sign, she'd be able to see the diner. She ran down the middle of the street, her bare feet slapping on the cool black pavement. If she could just get to Phoebe, she knew she could talk some sense into her. Get her to realize she needed psychiatric help.

  The car she had seen went to the end of the street that ran perpendicular to the hotel, then backed into a driveway to turn around. Marcy's heart fluttered. Who was out at this time of night? Why were they turning back? Had they seen her? Was it the man she had seen in the window?

  Was there even a man? If so, who? Was he someone Phoebe had hired to help her with the gas ventilation system in the basement?

  "Phoebe, who's there with you?" Marcy darted for the sidewalk, still running in the direction of the diner. "Please tell me where you are. Let me come to you!"

  "How are you tonight?" Phoebe said, still talking to someone else.

  A pause, then, "Yeah, yeah, I guess it is a little late to be out walking." Then Phoebe laughed, her voice low. Sexy.

  "Phoebe!" Marcy kept her eye on the car approaching her as she ran for the stop sign. She was afraid, but not for herself. For Phoebe. It sounded like her sister was catching a ride. The newspaper said it was believed Patti had caught a ride with someone the night she was kidnapped. "Damn it, who are you talking to?" Marcy demanded.

  "A ride?" Phoebe said. "Well, that depends on which way you're going." It was that sexy, playful tone Marcy knew so well. She'd heard her sister use it a hundred times with men. A thousand times.

  "Phoebe, listen to me," Marcy shouted into the phone. "Tell me where you are this minute. Tell me who you're talking to. I'm coming for you."

  "I gotta go," Phoebe said, this time directly into the phone. "Talk to you later, Sis. Or not..."

  "Phoebe—!" Marcy shouted. "Don't—"

  She heard a click too distinct to misinterpret. Phoebe had hung up.

  "Phoebe!" Marcy cried. Under the light of a street lamp, she punched her sister's cell phone number in.

  The car wa
s crossing the street, pulling up to the sidewalk. Marcy stepped back into the shadows of a condo building as she listened to her sister's cell phone ring, unanswered.

  The dark-colored sedan rolled to a stop. Still listening to the phone ring in her ear, Marcy looked back in the direction of the hotel, ready to run.

  The window glided down. "Marcy!"

  "Oh!" Marcy cried, changing directions, running to the open window when she recognized the female voice. "Claire! You scared me half to death."

  "Me? What about you? What are you doing on this corner"—she looked her up and down—"half dressed in the middle of the night?"

  Marcy heard the locks on the doors click open.

  "Get inside, Marcy."

  Still breathing hard, Marcy opened the door. She saw now that the car was an unmarked police car. That was why she hadn't recognized it the first time it went by. "Claire, I'm so glad you're here." She dialed her sister's number again. "I was talking to Phoebe. You have to drive me to the diner. She says she left my car on the street there. She knows we know she tried to kill me."

  "I've already put an APB out for her," Claire said grimly. "It's worse than we suspected, Marcy. I hate to tell you this, but—"

  Marcy lifted her cell phone to her ear again. "Phoebe tried to kill me in December. She cut my brake lines. She told me." Phoebe's phone rang again. Rang and rang. "She was talking to me on the phone. She was leaving town, I guess, but then she was talking to someone," she gushed. "Claire, please..."

  The chief of police turned the car around in the intersection and headed back toward the hotel. "I'll go look for her, but you're going back to the hotel, and you're going to stay there if I have to handcuff you to the bed."