I’m toweling off my hair, dressed in shorts and my panda T-shirt, when there’s a sharp rap on the door. I’m almost expecting it. Barfly’s ears have perked up; he’s lying on the bathroom mat beside me. I pick up my gun from the counter by the sink. Maybe my hero wants to be rewarded. Maybe the men who gave up want to finish what they started.
“Everything’s OK, Barfly. You stay here.” He’s up on four legs now, but I shut him in the bathroom and cross to the door. The blinds are tightly closed.
I stare through the peephole. It’s a blur, greased on the other side with Vaseline. Probably done a long time ago, the trick of teenagers who like to tilt side mirrors on cars and replace Oreo filling with toothpaste.
When I open the door, my gun is pointed.
It’s not my dance partner from the bar. Not Carl. Not the aggressors from the alley. Not my trainer, testing me because he’s an insane nutjob.
In many ways, the man standing in front of me is the one I fear most.
He’s also the third man.
He pushes his way in, disarms me, and slams the door.
* * *
—
“I thought your dad taught you better than that.” He releases the magazine and ejects the round from the chamber. He sets them on the bedside table.
I’m glaring at him, not thinking clearly, still in shock. I’d hurt this man. It’s been more than a year.
My hair is red now instead of brown; his head is shaved bald instead of like fine black sandpaper. I don’t like it shaved. It makes him look a little mean. Relentless. His costume is the same as the last time: black polo, black Nikes, black jeans, a badge, gun attached to his waist. Everything about Andy is true.
I’ve felt his shadow for months and yet I’m still wondering where the hell he came from. What mistakes did I make with my quick-changes, fake-IDing, car-switching? Which one did me in?
He was the hero in the dark, and the realization suddenly pisses me off.
“Why in the hell are you following me?” I spit out.
“Where’s Carl Feldman?”
“Are you here to arrest me?” The conversation is beginning to feel like the ones late at night with Carl, where every next question spins us deeper into a dark hole.
Andy shoots me a look of incredulity.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The words hardly cover the things I’ve done. “Please, sit down.” I gesture to the side of the bed. He flips the desk chair around and sits. I can’t bear to see exactly how much he despises me, so I perch myself on the corner of the bed and focus on his shoes, size 11. I know the size of everything on him.
The first time I saw Andy, I was seventeen. He was a twenty-four-year-old up-and-coming cold case detective with a cheap suit and hope that coursed through his veins and into mine like sugar water. My sister’s face had smiled off his computer screen while she leaned against that dumb red barn.
The last time I saw him, he wasn’t wearing anything.
We slept together for the first time when I was nineteen, almost twenty. It stretched on for a month, on picnic blankets and his old leather couch, in the back of the five-year-old Lexus SUV that my parents bought to keep me safe.
It began with a covert kiss in a parking garage. He was politely escorting me back from his FBI office in Dallas after dark. When we arrived at my car, I reached up. He lifted me off the ground. I was a broken bird, rescued. Seconds later, he’d declared the kiss a slip. Slip. I was a feathery four-letter word, not even big enough to be a mistake.
That was back when we officially met every year on two significant dates to discuss my sister’s case: the anniversary of her disappearance, and her birthday. Regular briefings turned out to be too painful for my parents, so I’d arrived each time by myself, with fresh questions and my obsessive research jumbled with college textbooks in my backpack. I never told him everything, of course. He would have thought I was crazy.
Andy updated me on any little blip in my sister’s case; plugged in headphones for me so I could listen over and over to recorded phone call tips; compared Rachel’s disappearance to other, more current ones; assured me there was still an ongoing effort to track the whereabouts of Carl Louis Feldman and link him or his photographs to my sister or other girls who vanished.
Every visit grew more personal. The fourth time, I noticed that the picture of the twins was his screensaver. I knew he believed me.
Andy was finishing his master’s in English, a promise to his grandmother, a former teacher, who was terrified he’d die in a gun battle he didn’t see coming. We would collaborate in the interview room over ugly files until he’d force me to take a break. Sometimes he’d recite poetry to dilute the horror.
Angelou and Frost, Hughes and Dickinson. He said it kept him sane in a job like his to be reminded of all the joy and sorrow of the lives before us, to know we are knitted into a beautiful, flawed pattern that never ends. For a long time, Andy and a bunch of poets were the best therapy I got.
He had been otherwise kind the day in the garage that he declared me a slip, while I’d tried to cover my embarrassment. He’d named every reason why we were a terrible idea, like I hadn’t thought of those before I reached up.
He had a girlfriend. I was too young. It was unprofessional and could end horribly. He would lose perspective on the case. Hurt me. Get fired. My parents would feel betrayed. He was black and I was white and his own mother would kill him if a redneck, cop-hating asshole didn’t first. The last reason he meant as a joke, to make me laugh, but I didn’t, because it wasn’t funny.
We met again, as scheduled, six months later. I remember thinking my sister would have been twenty-six, plenty old enough to kiss him.
I remember dressing carefully that day. He didn’t want me, but I wanted to appear worth wanting. So it was thin lace and bare legs, loose hair and musky shampoo, a blue line around the smoke-and-mirror eyes that either drew people in or shuttered them out.
I didn’t feel nineteen and naive. Around him, I felt electric. I had leaned in and put my fingers on his shoulder just once that day. He flinched. I loved that bit of power.
The poem he’d shared at our break was sexless and lovely and full of hope—Walt Whitman on miracles. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle. In return, I recited a poem I wrote about the twins long before my sister disappeared. Two little girls play in the dark. There are monsters.
This time, when he walked me to my car, he jumped behind the wheel and drove us to his apartment. We didn’t speak all the way, just held hands tightly, knowing exactly what would happen when we got there.
Each time, afterward, it chewed at him. He thought he was ruining my life. I was the selfish one, though. My life felt pretty ruined already. I didn’t make it easy for him to end it. When I was wrapped in his body like an eternal poem and he was urging me to let my sister go and get on with my life—those are the only moments I ever thought I might.
After twenty-seven days of this, he stopped calling. He didn’t have to tell me why. He’d told me a hundred times. I let him go. I didn’t want to ruin him.
Last July, after more than three years of silence, he called out of nowhere and asked to meet at a restaurant. The man with all the reasons didn’t give me a good reason why. I showed up anyway and ordered a potent Lemon Drop martini. He seemed worried that day. Asked a lot of questions about my life, my Sister Quest (as he called it), the bruise on my right knee.
Later, he kissed that bruise.
While he was sleeping, I’d scoured his phone for passwords and codes that would get me access to more of what I wanted. I discovered a file on his laptop about my sister. The sight of the little icon with my sister’s name made me ache. He hadn’t given up. It had been opened only three days before. I copied that on a thumb drive, too.
He was still sleeping when I walked out the hotel room door.
An hour later, he’d changed every password I’d stolen.
I didn’t get much more than I already knew, and I lost a lot.
I can appreciate that right now when he’s real and present, four feet away, so livid and beautiful that I can’t breathe.
43
Barfly is raking his paws across the back of the bathroom door, a steady scratch-scratch rhythm. Andy has wheeled around, his weapon drawn and aimed.
This is fear—the thought of bullets ripping and splintering through that door. I grab Andy’s arm. “That’s my dog on the other side, not Carl. Put your gun away. Please. I’m the only one here.”
“Show me.” He shakes me off.
“It’s my dog,” I repeat, twisting the knob. Barfly bounds out, jumping on Andy’s legs, tail wagging, as if his scar is drawn on with a marker. I whistle Barfly over and listen to Andy slide open the shower door, making sure. Trained.
“Where is Carl Feldman?” he repeats, as soon as he reappears.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not messing around. I know you are together.” And then he says my name. It spreads like a warm burn through my chest. The name that will be permanently etched on my grave, just like Sophronia’s and Jimmie Elizabeth’s on those stones at the cemetery where my sister and I used to roam. My mother picked my name out of a novel when she was a child herself.
“Carl and I were together for a few days,” I admit. “He took off.”
“You don’t know where he is.” Flat. Disbelief.
“No.” I’m trying to remember where I left the map that I had no interest in showing him. In the glove compartment? In full view on the passenger seat?
“I never thought you’d go this far.” He’s pacing the narrow patch between the double beds. My trainer said pacing was a good technique to use on the other guy. It’s like a player on first base toying with the pitcher. Barfly, sitting perfectly still beside me, begins to pant. I rest a hand on his head.
“Meaning…”
“Meaning, taking whatever delusional, dangerous path you’re on. You don’t understand what you’re stirring up.”
“I do. And I’m prepared.”
“Oh, good God, you only think so.” He’s stops abruptly. “What do you expect to gain from this? Do you really believe Carl Feldman will lead you to Rachel’s body?”
Harsh. He knows the soft spots so well.
“The day we first met, I should have shut you down. Convinced you that a picture you accidentally found in your house had absolutely nothing to do with your sister. Nothing. That it was a coincidence or your mind made a connection that wasn’t there. I should have never let you consider for a second that Carl Feldman was a possibility. I should have gotten you some…help.”
After all this time, he’s finally implying what he never would.
“Don’t you understand?” I strain to ask the question calmly. “I would have arrived at this place, in this motel room, with or without you. You always blame yourself, Andy—it drives me crazy. I’m not a kid. I was never a kid.”
“Are you positive Carl’s responsible for your sister’s death?” he snaps. “Because I’m not.”
“We don’t know for sure she’s dead.” It’s like releasing a breath I’ve held since the very first night her bed was empty beside mine, the sheets tangled the way she left them.
But it’s true. No one has ever handed me a single piece of evidence. No one has shown me a sharp sliver of my sister’s bone or a microscopic spot of her blood, which always ran a little darker than mine. No one has played me a confession.
That leaves one percent hope. Or ninety-nine percent despair. It depends on whether my glass is filled with whiskey or tea.
There is such weight and pain in my name. He’s saying it again. He needs to stop saying it.
I’m trying to think. Did Andy put a tracker in my suitcase?
Was he in my apartment? Has he been on my tail since Mrs. T’s?
How much does he know?
“How long have you been keeping tabs on me?” I fume out loud. “Since we last met? Since Carl popped up on the radar. Longer? Have you been tracking me longer?”
“Go home. Or to London, where you’ve convinced your mother you are having the time of your life. Let us do our jobs.”
But you won’t, Andy. Not like I will.
He’s talked to my mother.
“Who is us?” I ask softly. “Do you have a partner with you?” My head pivots toward the window. The idea of someone else, anyone else, on the other side of those blinds feels like a betrayal.
The us was always Andy and me.
“Are you wearing some kind of wire? Go ahead, take me in.” I hold out my wrists. Daring him. I need to know how far he will go. Why he’s here. “I’ve done plenty of things I can be arrested for. I’ve stalked people. Bribed people. I stole Carl’s camera out of evidence.”
“Stop. Talking.”
“If you aren’t arresting me, then please leave. Carl is gone. That’s the truth, Andy. My Sister Quest is a failure. That should make you happy. I appreciate that you took care of those creeps at the bar, but you need to understand something. I would have gotten out of that myself. And you? You would not be in this room unless I let you in.”
My wrists still hang in the air.
I can’t let him stop me.
Andy takes a purposeful step forward. It’s a mistake.
ENGLISH/MRS. ARCHER
Paper Ghosts
Two little girls
In pretty white dresses
And floating veils
Play in the dark
There are monsters
In my closet
In their forest
Don’t be scared!
When I step into their picture
Do I look frozen still?
Turned to stone?
Invisible?
Can anyone hear me?
I climb, dance
Run, hide
Whisper
Cry
I was meant to find
My secret sisters
To make me brave
44
It was my fourteenth visit to Edna Zito, two days before I graduated from high school. She leaned over and whispered, “I’m not supposed to talk about those little girls in the forest.”
We were sitting alone together in the nursing home’s little garden. A brightly hued shawl was tossed around my shoulders, a graduation gift crocheted back and forth between Edna and the Roly Polies. They had presented it to me an hour earlier, wrapped in creased, reused wrapping paper decorated with Christmas bells.
I couldn’t believe it. Edna had been disappearing a little more every week. I’d decided weeks ago that she knew nothing. I’d stopped showing her pictures. I was only still visiting because I’d grown fond of her. “It’s OK to tell,” I cajole. “What do you know, Edna?”
Edna had placed her veined, papery hand on my knee. “Do you think it is Opal or Gertie who is spraying Windex on my blue Jell-O? The blue Windex wouldn’t show up. It’d be a clever way to get me.”
“Windex sprays on clear,” I’d reminded her impatiently. “It wouldn’t show up on red Jell-O, either. Tell me what you know about the twins.”
“What twins? I don’t know any twins. I thought we were talking about blue poisons.”
Then I had impatiently yanked two pictures of Carl from my backpack—a copy of the portrait in his book and a newer one, of him maneuvering his way through the media at the courthouse during his trial.
“Is that a movie star?” Edna frowned.
“Please, Edna. You’ve seen these pictures before. Focus.”
“I think it’s time for Chips Ahoy and fruit cup.” Her face was a little pale, her breathing more rapid.
I was eighteen. Untrained.
I shut up and wheeled her in for the afternoon snack.
A week later, Nixon Zito stood in front of his mother’s door, arms crossed, waiting for me. “I think it’s better for everyone if you don’t come anymore.”
45
While Andy’s fingers touch my throat, I’m thinking abou
t Carl. Whether he will break down the door and kill us while I am naked, and put me out of my misery.
While Andy’s hands hold me down, I’m picturing his partner outside in an unmarked car, perhaps a woman secretly crushing on him, who has already imagined their pretty babies.
I’m wondering if she will be the one to enter and finish me off with her words. While I close my eyes and spin wildly into black, I’m thinking about how nothing but Andy has ever felt this painful, infinite, and profound.
When Andy had reached for my wrists, we could have done what we trained to do. We could have hurt each other.
Instead, I let Andy yank me to him. His warm hands ran under my T-shirt, then his lips. I’d involuntarily winced as his fingers roved over an old bruise on my back, a souvenir from the final training exercise. He’s always touching my bruises.
The attack at the bar was beginning to seem like a dream, a photo wavering, half-developed.
Andy had misinterpreted my flinch. Stepped back. Stared at me with eyes glazed with lust or hurt, hard to know. “This has to be your call.”
I didn’t even have to think. I’d curved a hand around his cheek just like the very first time in the parking garage.
He’d searched my eyes while removing his gun—a purposeful interval, a chance to change my mind.
And then we fell back on the bed, bouncing a little awkwardly on the hard mattress, laughing. We’d stripped away everything. His jeans and shirt, my bra and patch of underwear, every bit of armor, until we were naked and equal.
Now Andy’s slowing down, balancing his weight on his hands, nuzzling my ear. I imagine myself as a bird, perched and spinning on the ceiling fan, watching. I’m the soulful nightingale flown from Andy’s favorite Keats poem, or maybe something darker and less easily missed—a scribbled crow from Van Gogh’s wheat field.
Paper Ghosts_A Novel of Suspense Page 17
