The Last Day of Emily Lindsey

by Nic Joseph

  A chuckle went around the room as everyone reached under their chairs and picked up the pad of paper.

  Amanda leaned to one side and looked at Gayla and me. “You too, Detectives. If you’re going to sit in, you have to participate. This is a safe space. Nobody gets to sit and watch.”

  Gayla and I both leaned down slowly and picked up our notepads.

  “So I want you to draw something on one side that makes you upset, something that troubles you. Maybe it’s something in your past that still brings you grief. Maybe it’s something you’re afraid of. I want you to draw that on one side of the paper. I’ll give you a few minutes to do that. Don’t take a lot of time. Just draw the first thing that comes to mind.”

  She sat back in her chair while the participants all bent over their papers. I wanted to get up and use this time to ask Amanda more questions, but I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate. Besides, she’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want to talk to me anyway.

  I looked at my blank paper. Gayla was busy drawing, and I smiled at how easily she let herself get involved in things like this. I didn’t know what to draw. Truth was, there were so many options. I was trying to think of something to put down, something to be able to say I’d done the exercise, when the image of the steel bars came to my mind.

  Amanda had said, “Draw the first thing that comes to mind.”

  Before I knew what I was doing, I’d drawn the bars, long and narrow, almost covering the page.

  Gayla looked over. “What’s that?” she asked. “Prison bars? You’re scared of prison?”

  I shrugged. “Something like that.” I don’t know what compelled me, but I leaned forward and drew a tiny picture of the symbol on the bottom of one of the bars. When I was done, I quickly flipped my paper over and cleared my throat. I looked over at Gayla, who was hunched over her own paper. “What’s that?” I asked.

  She sat back and lifted her paper so I could see it.

  She’d drawn two people far apart on the paper. “Loss,” she said. “I’m constantly afraid of losing someone I love. I think about it all the time.”

  We stared at each other for a moment. Gayla was probably the strongest person I knew, and this revelation surprised me. I was about to say something when Amanda spoke again.

  “Now, if you’re done with that, I ask you to flip it over, and on this side, draw something, just one thing, that makes you smile,” said Amanda. “Anything. Take some time with this one. Whereas on the other side, I asked you to draw the first thing that came to mind, on this side, I want you to think of the last thing that made you smile, really smile this week, and draw that.”

  I stared at the paper. The last thing that made me smile this week. I knew that it was at the end of my meeting with Pat, when I’d told her I’d see her next week. I drew her standing at the door, and then suddenly, I wanted to hide it. I tore off a clean sheet of paper and covered it up, because I didn’t want the prison bars facing up either.

  Amanda stood up and began to walk around the room. “Here’s what’s interesting to me,” she said. “Some of you have flipped the paper over so that the bad image is facing up. And some of you have chosen the good image. What does it say if you’re more willing to let people see what you’re afraid of than what makes you smile, or vice versa?” She stopped next to my seat and looked at the paper I’d used to cover up my drawings, but she didn’t say anything.

  The class wrapped up a few minutes later, and I stood, crumpling the paper up and putting it in my jacket pocket. There were a lot of people waiting to speak with Amanda, and Gayla and I hung around to talk to her. She looked up at us, and I could see the exasperation in her eyes.

  “Come on,” Gayla said. We headed upstairs and waited by the front door. We watched as the attendees walked up one at a time, giving us a brief nod as they walked out the door. Finally, we heard footsteps, and Amanda was there, carrying a milk crate full of supplies and her bag on her shoulder.

  When she saw us, she sighed. “You’re still here?” she asked.

  “We need to know whatever you can tell us about Emily Lindsey,” I said. “All we want to know is why she came to see you.”

  She shook her head. “I really don’t want to talk about this,” she said. “I don’t understand why you can’t respect that.”

  “Because a woman is dead,” I said. “And the people who did it got away. That’s why we can’t respect your wish not to talk to us. I’m sorry.”

  We all heard a buzzing sound, and Gayla dug her phone out of her pocket. She looked down at it. “Sorry,” she said, nodding at Amanda before opening the door and stepping out.

  Amanda walked past me and out the door. She held it open. “Are you coming? Or are you going to stay in there all night?” she asked.

  I followed her out into the night and stood behind her as she locked the front door to the church.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know anything, and I can’t help you.”

  As we stood there in the night, her with a milk crate perched on her hip, me with my hands in my pockets, I felt desperate. She was the only lead I had, and I needed to understand just what had happened to Emily—and who that woman was at the hospital.

  And why she’d drawn the symbol.

  My fingers connected with the paper I’d balled up and stuffed in my pocket only minutes ago.

  I took it out and unrolled it before handing it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, shifting the milk crate before continuing to unroll the paper. Her face scrunched in confusion as she looked down at the picture I’d drawn of Patricia.

  “Turn it over,” I said.

  She flipped it over and stared at the picture of the prison bars that I’d drawn. I watched as her gaze dropped down to the small symbol I’d added in the corner. Her eyes widened, and she looked back at me.

  “That symbol,” I said. “I think the woman who drew it is the woman who killed Emily. Have you seen it before?”

  She blinked a few times, and I knew immediately that she was hiding something.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve never seen it before. Now, Detective, please—please—I’m begging you. Let this go.”

  • • •

  When I got home that night, I dialed Lara. She picked up on the last ring.

  “Hi,” she said. “Look, Steve, I’m sorry about what happened at the birthday par—”

  “Is it okay if I come to the play?”

  “What?”

  “Kit’s play. He wants me there. But I wanted to make sure it’s okay with you.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “I mean, it is a public event,” I said, and I winced as the words came out of my mouth.

  She cursed under her breath. “Then why even call me? Huh, Steve? I hate when you do things like that.”

  “I’m just telling you that it’s a public event—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s for parents of students at the school—”

  “And community members and friends, but if you don’t want me to come—”

  “I don’t want you to come.”

  She said it softly but firmly, and I choked on nothing but air.

  For months, I’d been pushing her, daring her, knowing she wouldn’t be able to actually say the words. Relying on the fact that she’d loved me once.

  But she’d finally called my bluff.

  “Well, I guess that’s that, isn’t it?” I said.

  I hung up and headed straight for my bedroom. The guilt was rushing over me in waves, and I knew I should stop, but my feet kept going, leading me toward the side of my bed. I opened the drawer to my nightstand and leaned over it, breathing heavily.

  I didn’t bother to get out the towels or tissues. Instead, I lifted my sleeve and placed the razor against my arm, my fingers shaking as I pulled it slowly ag
ainst my skin.

  The pain was gratifying, and it replaced the guilt. I sat there, watching the blood as it slowly rose to the surface of my skin. At the same time, the tears welled in my eyes, and I waited as the droplets balanced in both places—one on my arm, and one at the top of my cheek.

  I felt the tear rolling down my face, and I tilted my head down to wipe it on my shoulder. As I did this, the droplet of blood suddenly rolled, as if it were trying to get away—and landed on my sheet.

  I felt an overwhelming sense of panic as I stared at the tiny, dark-red spot on my sheet.

  “Fuck,” I said out loud, dropping the razor back into my nightstand and standing up. I raced into the bathroom and wet a washcloth before running back to the bed to scrub it away. It was evidence of everything dark and terrible in my life, and I wanted it gone.

  But it was too late.

  I wiped at the stain, but it just smeared slightly and stayed there, taunting me. All of the guilt rushed back to the surface, and I screamed, tearing the sheet off the bed. I carried it and the razor blade into the kitchen and pushed both of them down into the trash can.

  Then I grabbed my cell phone and dialed a phone number.

  “Mom,” I whispered when she answered. I hadn’t called her like this in a long time, but immediately, she knew.

  “I’m on my way,” she said.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Last Day of Emily Lindsey

  Sunday—two hours left

  Not for the first time during this trip, Emily glanced into the rearview mirror and stared at herself for a few moments before letting her eyes drift back to the road. She liked looking at herself with her new hair and flushed cheeks and barrels of newfound, reporter-extraordinaire confidence.

  She felt alive.

  She pushed down on the accelerator and let the needle go five, then ten, then fifteen miles over the speed limit. She slowly eased her foot off until she was back in a safe zone and then did it again.

  The meeting was being held at a small coffee shop in a town not far from the hotel where she was staying. Friends of Frank held meetings three Sundays out of every month with interested women. They never held them at their home—that place was reserved for women who made it past the several-month-long recruiting process.

  And those women were few and far between, Matilda had told her several times.

  “Only certain women are destined to be a part of our group, and I feel like you’re the one,” she’d said to Emily on just their third meeting.

  They’d met more than a dozen times over two months, and within just a few weeks, Matilda had been eating out of her hands. Emily saw in her a woman who was yearning to be free from her past, searching for acceptance and childlike in her friendship.

  And apparently, Matilda saw in her some desperate woman who was yearning to be in a mind-controlled world. Emily smiled at the thought as she pulled into a space a few blocks away from the café. Maybe, if this whole blogging thing didn’t work out, she could go into acting.

  As she parked, her jet-black hair hanging around her cheeks, she felt more confident and more nervous than she had that first day. She was more confident, because she had a plan and she knew what she was doing, but she was more nervous for the same reason.

  That first day, Matilda had walked timidly into the restaurant to meet her, and Emily had been surprised at how normal she looked. It was a cult after all, and she’d expected the woman to have ankle-length hair and beady eyes or to have some sort of religious symbol painted on her forehead. Instead, she actually didn’t look too different from Emily herself, with long, blondish-brown hair and an athletic build. They were even about the same height. Besides her overtly pale skin, Matilda could have been any of the girls in the neighborhood who Emily worked so hard to avoid.

  “Emily?” the woman had asked her. “Welcome.”

  As she sat outside the recruitment event three months later, Emily knew she had to find a way to get close to her without the men seeing her. The men were always watching; that’s one thing it took her a while to learn. During her regular meetings with Matilda, she’d seen them lurking, usually the tall one who sort of looked like a vampire John Travolta.

  And then there was the man in the ill-fitting tan suit, Bill Boyd, the one who’d been watching her for a while.

  She’d noticed him after her second meeting with Matilda, trailing her home. A few harmless questions, and Matilda had admitted that Bill was the organization’s personal private eye—he followed prospective women around to make sure that they were who they said they were. Emily had spotted him early and had managed to keep him at bay, for a while. He was the one who’d broken her cover to Matilda.

  Still, Emily knew she had to find a way to get the woman alone.

  If they saw her again—she’d already tried to get close to Matilda twice since they’d banned her—they’d get Emily out of there right away, and she knew she’d never see Matilda again.

  She got out of the car and walked quickly into the drugstore next to the café. In case anyone was watching her, she wanted to appear like a normal woman running some errands who stopped for a coffee. She walked around for about ten minutes before leaving and heading to the café. She was early. She opened the door and walked inside. She crept to the side of the room.

  She just needed a chance, an opening.

  She took a seat at a table near the back.

  A teenaged waitress appeared, a smile on her face. “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Um, just some hot tea, with lemon.”

  The girl nodded and walked away. Emily brushed her hair in front of her face and slumped in her booth, her eyes on the door.

  About fifteen minutes later, she watched as the door opened and a young woman walked in. Emily knew immediately that this was the woman who was meeting Friends of Frank. She was young—she had to be under twenty—with waist-length brown hair and big, brown eyes.

  And she looked scared out of her mind.

  She walked over to a table near the back of the café and sat down. Emily turned her head and pretended to read the café menu that was scribbled on the wall behind the counter, but she watched as the woman reached into her purse and set something out on the table in front of her.

  A small, red dictionary.

  That must have been the item they told her to bring to identify herself. For Emily’s first meeting, it had been a blue notebook. Emily turned back and watched the door.

  “Here’s your tea,” a voice said from behind her.

  Emily jumped. “Oh, thanks,” she said, leaning back so the girl could place it in front of her. As she added sugar, Emily saw that her hands were shaking. She was reaching for another sugar packet when the door opened again, and two women walked in.

  Emily recognized Matilda right away, and she quickly averted her eyes to the table. If Matilda recognized her before Emily had a chance to get her alone, she’d be gone. Emily stared down into her tea as the women walked to the back of the café and joined the woman with the dictionary.

  The meetings usually lasted a while, and Emily settled in to wait. All she needed was for Matilda to go to the bathroom, to get separated from the other two women for just a moment, and she’d seize her opportunity.

  “Ma’am?” Emily looked up. The waitress was standing there, frowning.

  “Oh, sorry?”

  “I said do you want more hot water?” The girl peered over into the cup. “Oh, never mind. Looks like you’re still full there,” she said loudly before walking away.

  Emily turned to look at the table and felt her heart skip a beat. Matilda wasn’t talking to the other two women.

  She was staring directly at Emily.

  There was a frown on her face, and that frown turned into something else—fear, anger, or something close to it. She stood abruptly, leaned down, and spoke qui
etly to the woman she’d come with. They both stood, said something to the woman with the dictionary, and then turned to walk toward the door.

  “Wait…” Emily croaked out, scrambling from her seat. She reached into her purse and grabbed a few bills for the tea, dropping them on the table. Then she rushed toward the door where Matilda was leaving.

  “Wait, Matilda,” she said. “Mattie.”

  The two women at the door shared a glance.

  “I told you to leave me alone,” Matilda said. “What did you do to your hair?”

  “They’re here, aren’t they? Somewhere out there waiting?”

  “You need to leave me alone, Emily,” Matilda said quietly but urgently. “Please. Leave us alone.”

  “Who is this woman?” the lady standing next to her asked.

  “Nobody.”

  They turned, stepped through the door, and began walking quickly down the street. Emily stumbled along behind them.

  “Wait!” she said. “Mattie.”

  The women kept walking. They were heading toward a black car at the end of the block. Emily watched as the door opened and a man got out, peering in their direction. He scowled when he saw Emily, and he began heading toward them.

  “Mattie, wait!” Emily said again, and then, because she had no more tricks up her sleeve, she used her last one. “Mattie, remember what you told me! You told me. I’m not going to stop.”

  Matilda stopped in her tracks and looked at the woman beside her and then at the man who was walking toward her. He reached her and put his arm on her shoulder, looking over her head at Emily.

  Emily stood there, her shoulders square. They were in the middle of the street in broad daylight. She had the information she needed. They couldn’t do anything to her.

  She watched as Matilda leaned forward and whispered something to the man. Then Matilda turned and, with both hands in her pockets, walked quickly back to Emily.

  Her eyes were unfocused, her breathing shallow, but Emily knew she’d gotten through to her.