by EC Sheedy
Silence rested between Dan and her, until he took her arm and made a move toward the last car still remaining in the row of parking stalls near the chapel. His grip was firm, and his gaze was straight ahead.
“You have any idea where all that shit came from?”
Still stunned, she shook her head.
“You believe it?”
“Believe Seb?” She stopped and tugged her arm from his grasp a few steps from a midsize Buick with a rental sticker on the bumper. “I still can’t believe Holly’s dead—that someone killed her. I don’t have room in my brain for a list of suspects.”
“You know this Adam guy?”
She hesitated. She really did not want to go in the direction any conversation about Adam would take them. She also couldn’t lie. “Yes. I know him.” The words came out edged with defensiveness, her own history with Adam inevitably tingeing them with bitterness . . . and hurt.
“Get in the car.” He took the few steps to the passenger side of the Buick and opened the door.
His tone was brusque, and under normal circumstances, she’d have called him on it. But not today. Not after Sebastian’s stunning accusations, and not with Adam Dunn’s name again polluting her universe.
They drove for a time before Dan spoke again. “Tell me about him,” he ordered, staring straight ahead.
She knew he meant Adam, but not being in the mood for another of his crisp instructions, Camryn turned in the car seat and took a good look at him. His face was lean, clean-shaven, and grim. His jaw clenched and unclenched as if in a battle for control, yet he didn’t look angry. He looked shell-shocked and ruthlessly determined.
When she didn’t answer, he cast her a sideways glance, his intelligent green eyes icy and unforthcoming. “You second-guessing yourself? Thinking maybe you’re riding with a man who killed his wife?”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“You don’t have to. You already did.”
“How so?”
“You got in the car, didn’t you?”
“So?”
“Holly always said you were the smartest person she ever knew, that you had great instincts. Scary instincts, she said. So the way I figure it, your getting into this car with me says you know damn well Solari’s full of shit.” He set his gaze back on the road ahead. “But I’ll say this once, so you’re sure. I did not kill my wife.”
Camryn let that statement hover over those instincts he’d referred to, watched him go back to exercising his jaw. “I believe you,” she said.
Another glance shot her way. “Thank you.”
“Of course, it helps your case that you were out of town at the time.”
“How do you know that?”
“I spoke to Holly before she left for Boston. I was hoping to see Kylie . . . Anyway, she said you were working in northern Canada and wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks.”
He nodded, left the car to silence for a time. “What else did she say?”
“Not much more than that. I wanted us to get together before she and Kylie left, but she put me off, said she didn’t have time. That we’d do it when she got back.” Camryn remembered the conversation, how evasive Holly was, and how she’d resisted their getting together, as she’d been doing for months.
“We were separated. Did she tell you that?”
“I knew you were having some kind of problem. Holly wouldn’t talk about it, but she did say it was one of the reasons she was taking Kylie and going to Boston for a while.”
“Yeah, there was a problem, all right. And thanks to your friend, that problem now has a name. Adam Dunn.”
When the breeze coming off Lake Washington turned cold, Gina came in from the porch. She went immediately to the phone. Called again. Still no answer—for either Camryn or Seb. She wanted to know about Holly’s funeral. She was curious enough for that.
She went to the window and stared out. Perhaps she should have gone to the service, if only to keep up appearances. A thought that made her laugh. She’d given up caring about appearances when she’d knocked on Delores’s door months ago. The darkening world outside this ugly house held nothing for her other than broken dreams and missed chances: a ruined career, a lost child, and the man who’d caused it all.
She dropped the curtain she’d been holding back, wondered idly if Adam had attended his lover’s funeral—even from a safe distance. Wondered if he mourned his one true love.
“Gina!” her mother called from upstairs.
Gina went to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m here.”
“Bring me that bottle of brandy you’ve been hiding above the fridge. I need a nightcap.”
“How about some tea instead? I made a pie.” The kitchen was filled with bread, cakes, cookies. When she couldn’t sleep, which was most nights, baking filled her hours from darkness to light.
“If I wanted tea and your damn pie, I’d have said so.”
“You know you’re not supposed to be drinking while you’re taking Demerol. The doctor was clear about that.”
“Screw the doctor. He’s not the one in pain.” Pause. “Besides, I haven’t had a pill in hours. So bring the brandy, and cut back on the give-a-damn attitude. You’ll live longer.”
But you won’t . . .
“Fine by me. If you want to kill yourself,” Gina muttered the last as she moved away from the stairs toward the kitchen. To reach the brandy in the cupboard above the refrigerator, Gina had to stand on a stool. As she did so, the thought about how Delores even knew it was there. She hadn’t seen her put it there; Gina was certain of that, which meant she was getting the bottle herself when Gina wasn’t around to do it for her. “Sneaky bitch,” she murmured, shaking her head, and reaching for the brandy. She wasn’t surprised, or even angry, knowing full well Delores was getting out of her wheelchair more and more. She was just keeping her increased mobility to herself, because it suited her to play the invalid.
If Sebastian knew, he’d be livid, she thought, taking a glass from the lower cupboard. Not that she was going to tell him. It would only upset things. Delores had her deceptions, and Gina had hers. So what? For now the days went by well enough.
She cleared the top step and opened the door to her mother’s room. As usual, the door was ajar, allowing Delores to hear what was going on in the house.
The older woman was sitting in her wheelchair listening to Brahms. She gave Gina the barest of glances. “About bloody time,” she said, as Gina set the bottle down on the walnut table beside her chair. The table was littered with pill bottles, soft-drink cans, papers and pens, and an overflowing ashtray that dribbled ash and cigarette butts onto the coffee-stained doily it sat on. The room smelled of stale cigarettes, soiled laundry, and gardenia, the scent Delores sprayed on herself liberally and often.
Gina poured her mother a shot of brandy, without thanks, and looked around the large bedroom, then up at the cobwebs festooning the high corners, hanging from the antler chandelier in the ceiling. It must be getting close to the time when Delores would demand that Gina come and clean up, which she would do while her mother railed at her for ignoring her, for letting her live in a pigsty. She also knew that until Delores did issue the instruction, she wasn’t to touch anything or she’d be screamed at for “poking her skinny nose” in where it wasn’t wanted.
Thinking about Delores, her irrational demands, Gina worked to suppress the rage and confusion that threatened her life here. The grayness inside her deepened and her breathing turned choppy. Unbidden, ugly thoughts rose from the murky pool that had become her mind—monster thoughts that terrified her with their urgings and gravelly voices.
“What are you doing down there, anyway?” Delores asked, taking a good swig of the brandy.
“Nothing.” She gestured at the filthy ashtray. “Can I?”
Delores frowned, then gave a curt nod. Gina picked up the ashtray, walked to the chrome trash can in the bathroom, and emptied it. She didn’t risk washing it, because she didn’
t want to push her luck. What she wanted to do was get out of this room, go to bed, and sink into a mind-deadening sleep.
“Nobody does ‘nothing.’ Not even your crippled mother. So, I’ll ask you again. What the hell are you doing down there?”
Dear God, the woman wanted to talk. “Dishes, reading the newspaper,” Gina lied, not about to tell her mother she’d been sitting on the back porch, staring at the lake, thinking about Holly’s death, imagining her slide into 2,000 degrees of crematory heat, seeing her skin bubbling and peeling, lifting off to float like dust motes in the oven, tossed and buffeted by boiling air and licking flames.
Holly would be ugly, her flesh heat-warped and black, before she sank, finally and forever, into the anonymity of the flame, nothing but ash and bone fragments. Her urn would be beautiful, of course. Paul would have nothing but the best for Holly. Probably gold and jewel-encrusted, garish even. She’d nearly smiled at the thought, knowing how little that would mean to Holly, but the smile felt more like pain feeding on envy. Holly always had the best.
Holly always had Adam.
“The Grantman girl’s service was today, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” She headed for the door. Trust Delores to pick up her thoughts. Camryn did that, too. It was like they were tuned in on some special frequency. It scared her, angered her. No one should be allowed in someone else’s head, especially hers. Especially now.
“Sit, for God’s sake. I could use the company . . . such as it is.” Delores turned off the stereo, and the messy room sank into old-house silence.
Gina sat, her hands limply in her lap, and waited for her mother to speak.
“Paul Grantman still with that brainless slut he married a few years ago? What’s her name?”
“Erin. And, yes, they’re still together.”
Delores shook her head. “Never would have thought it. What’s she? Twenty-five, thirty years younger than him?”
“Something like that.”
Delores went silent then, and Gina hoped she wasn’t remembering her own short-lived affair with Paul. It had cost him his second wife and created a delicious scandal that everyone in her school heard about. Not only did Delores become an institutionalized joke for the remainder of high school, Holly didn’t speak to her for a year—as if it were her fault. As a mother-embarrassing-her-teenage-daughter event, it had no peer. Back then she’d thought Holly a friend, cared what she thought.
“That man always was an easy mark. A gold-digger’s wet dream.” Delores shook her head again. “I slept with him a couple of times . . . I ever tell you that?”
“Yes.” She stood. The list of men Delores didn’t sleep with would be more interesting—and much shorter. “Is there anything else I can get you? I’m tired. I think I’ll go to my room, read for a while.” She picked up the bottle of brandy.
“Leave it.” Delores wrapped her fingers around Gina’s wrist, to stop her hand. One of her long nails scraped the underside of her wrist.
“Fine.” Let her drink herself to death—who cares. She released her hold on the bottle, but Delores didn’t let go.
“You in hurry?” she said. “You don’t want to talk to your dear old mother? The mother you put in a wheelchair?”
Anger curled low in Gina’s belly. “I did not put you in that wheelchair. I saved your life. Franco would have killed you.”
“Bullshit!”
“I aimed at . . . his thigh. You know that.” She pulled her wrist from her mother’s grasp, massaged it.
“You’re a liar, Gina. You wanted to pay me back. You wanted to get even. I know you’ve never forgiven me. And that night? I saw your eyes when you pointed that gun. It was the same look you had when you walked in on me and your precious Adam. You aimed that gun at me. You wanted me dead, daughter dearest.”
“What happened that night between you and Franco had nothing to do with Adam.” Her neck stiffened, and her head started to ache. She refused to think about Delores and Adam. She’d put that away. Hadn’t she? Her vision blurred.
“Yeah, right.” Delores scoffed. “As if every night of your life hasn’t been about that scummy bastard in one way or another since the day you met him. Miracle he didn’t knock you up.” She stopped, seemed to look past Gina. “He was a hot lay, though, I grant you that.” Her eyes came back to Gina. “But me and him? Nothing but a test run. A couple of times. That was it. Did you ever think that maybe I did it for you—to prove what a greedy low-life he really was.”
Gina stood over her mother. She would not talk about Adam, not with Delores. Never with Delores. It would be like having her bones removed without anesthetic. “You’re welcome to your opinion,” she said, sounding as stiff as a gun stock.
“That I am.” Her mother settled back in her chair, glass in one hand, brandy bottle in the other, her expression smug. “And my opinion is my loving daughter wanted revenge because I had sex with her boyfriend, and decided to get it by putting a bullet in me.”
Gina fisted her hands. “Get this straight, once and for all—for both our sakes, because we can’t go on living with this . . . elephant in the room. Read my lips. That night had nothing to do with Adam. You and Franco were drunk. He was hitting you over and over—with a closed fist. He would have beaten you to death.”
Delores lifted her glass and took a drink. “As if I couldn’t have handled him. Instead you arrive at the door like some kind of back-country militia reject. Jesus, girl, do you think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know you saw an opportunity for revenge—and took it?”
“I aimed for his leg,” Gina repeated, defending the indefensible. “But you stepped in front of him, threw your arms around him . . .” She stopped, bile rising at the thought of that night, when her life, already in a miserable place, sank to a lower one. “It was an accident. You either start believing that or I can’t go on living here.” Her stomach churned at the thought of moving. Where would she go? What would she do? She had no job, no money, no energy . . .
The room went quiet. Delores drained her brandy glass in one swallow and set it on the messy table beside her. “I loved Franco, you know,” she said. “Maybe he was too young for me. Maybe he did only want my money, but he made me feel good again. Like I was a real woman—not just an old woman.”
“Don’t—”
“The way he looked at me, touched me . . . He set me on fire. I felt alive.” She raised her eyes to Gina’s, and for the first time in a year, there was softness in them. “It’s hell, Gina, to think I’m never going to feel those things again—that no one cares. I might as well be dead.”
The moment bound them, deepened the silence in the room and the cold stillness in the reaches of Gina’s heart. She knew this loss, felt the emptiness of it, and the terrifying certainty that she, like her mother, would never feel truly alive again.
Delores poured herself another glass of brandy, took a drink. “Now get out of here, will you? Go back to the kitchen or wherever the hell you were, and leave me alone.” She shifted her chair, showed Gina her back. “Or better yet, get yourself laid. It’ll take that pinched look away from your mouth.” She shot her a cold look from over her shoulder. “It’s what I’d do—if my daughter hadn’t turned me into a cripple. Hey, here’s a better idea.” She narrowed her eyes, watched Gina closely. “Why not call that Adam character, ask him to come by and make us both happy? Hell, I’ll bet he’d do it—if the price was right. Just like you’ll stay here and look after me for as long as it suits me.” She paused. “You shouldn’t have missed, sweetheart, because it’s going to take a lifetime for you to make up for this.” She gripped the handrails on her wheelchair, shook them violently, and glared at Gina.
Gina, her hands shaking, her mind red-hot with rage, ran from the room. She went back to the porch, sat staring at the lake, barely blinking, until the night was dark enough to take a long walk along the lakeshore. She walked until the night grew blacker, the trees denser, her mind heavier, collapsing under the weight of her anger and re
sentment, her murderous thoughts.
Her life was hell, hopeless.
Delores deserved to die.
And it would be so easy . . .
The moon disappeared behind a cloud, leaving the path ink-black and treacherous. She stumbled, scraped her knee on a stone, and then sat cold-eyed in the middle of the path, her bitterness acid-sharp in her dry mouth, her heart a stone in her chest.
When the pale moon reappeared, Gina looked up at it, stared herself into an eerie calm. “She was right, you know. I did aim the gun at her. I hadn’t planned to. I . . . just did.” She blinked, then added, “But I was afraid.”
By the time she got back to the house, her cut knee was bleeding steadily, and slender streams of blood trickled down the front of her leg.
Gina didn’t like blood. It made her remember that day— the day she’d lost Adam’s baby. The blood had coursed down her thighs, thick and dark. Unstoppable. She’d called Adam in terror, expecting him to be upset. Expecting him to care.
Instead she found silence, then, “I have to be honest, Gina, in a way it’s kind of a relief,” he’d said. “Better for you and better for me. I’ve been meaning to call you.” He’d hesitated, but barely, adding, “Holly and I have hooked up again, and we’ve made some plans, and the truth is you having my kid right now would be damned awkward for both of us. But I’m sorry, babe. Really.”
Sorry, babe. Sorry babe. Sorry, babe . . .
She covered her ears with her palms, pressed hard. It was the last time she’d heard his voice.
She’d given him all her money, and when her own cash ran out, she’d stolen from the firm’s trust account. If the senior partners hadn’t quietly covered the loss to avoid publicity, she’d be in prison. She’d given him her body in a hundred different ways—and, oh God, how she’d hungered for his. She’d carried his child. Lost his child . . . alone.
Sorry, babe. Sorry babe. Sorry, babe . . .
She closed her eyes, never wanted to open them again, not on a world without Adam. He was a fever in her blood, and he’d taken everything. He’d taken her goddamn life! Used her until she was dark and empty.
