Paranoid

by Lisa Jackson

  “No.”

  “I’m talking about the gate to the side yard.” Rachel hooked a thumb toward the Pitts’ and Giordanos’ side of the house.

  “I said ‘no.’ I wasn’t near that side of the house. Geez, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition? God.” She filled the cup with water and stuck it into the microwave.

  “It was open.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s never open.”

  “Oh, geez, don’t tell me you’re going to flip out about a gate. It was probably Dylan or one of his dweebie friends.”

  “Let’s not start with insults, okay?”

  “Fine. But they are. All of them super computer nerds.” Then, “I thought you were going to wake us for school.” The microwave dinged and she retrieved her cup and started dunking a tea bag into the water.

  “I figured you could use a day off.” Rachel leaned a hip against the counter as Reno lapped from his water bowl. “How are you?”

  “Fine!” she snapped. “Geez. Dad texted like a million times this morning. I mean, yeah, I’m not cool with what happened. Not cool at all, but . . . I don’t need you guys treating me like a baby. It was awful. I hate it, but”—she looked up—“can we just forget it?”

  “Okay, then let’s talk about you sneaking out to be with a boy.”

  “Oh. God.” Harper rolled her eyes, still frantically dunking the tea. “Really?”

  “Really.” Then, as this was the moment, Rachel asked, “Are you on the pill?”

  “What?” She looked at her mother and shook her head. “Oh, Mom, no, let’s not do this.”

  “Are you having sex?”

  “Oh my God! Don’t, just don’t!”

  “Unprotected sex?”

  “Stop! Just stop! Just because you and your mom both got pregnant before you were married doesn’t mean I will. It’s not like some mutant gene.”

  “But it still happens. I’m just saying, and no judging here, if you need me to—”

  “I don’t! Mom, I can handle my life! Just drop it.”

  Rachel realized she was handling this all wrong and took a breath to calm herself. “I can’t. This probably seems like a bad time for this conversation, but I’m not sure there’s ever a time when it’s not awkward.”

  “I won’t get pregnant. Okay? And I’m not going to get some STD, if that’s what you’re getting at!” Harper was dunking her tea bag so rapidly that water sloshed over the rim of the cup. “Oh, shit . . . crap.” She yanked a paper towel from its spindle and started mopping up the mess. “I can’t deal with this!” Tossing the stained towel into the trash, she abandoned the tea and headed back to her room.

  Watching her, Rachel didn’t know whether to throttle her daughter or hold her close and never let go. How much of Harper’s attitude was from dealing with the trauma of the night before, and how much of it was just being a self-centered brat?

  Probably a little of both.

  You’re the adult, she reminded herself, but sometimes it just didn’t feel like it. She considered tossing the tea down the drain, then picked up the cup, walked down the hall, and rapped on Harper’s door.

  Her daughter was just yelling, “Could you just please leave me alone!” when Rachel pushed open the door.

  “Mom!” Harper, texting, was propped up in her bed, the duvet wrapped around her, her eyes sullen.

  “No lectures, okay?” Rachel said. “But you need to quit yelling and acting like a baby. I know you’ve been through a lot. We all have. But you don’t need to berate me or talk badly about your brother and his friends. We need to stick together.”

  “I thought you said ‘no lectures.’”

  “That’s all of it.” Rachel set the tea on her daughter’s nightstand. “Just one last thing,” she added and Harper’s lips pinched. “I get that you want to be treated like an adult. I remember. So . . . here’s the deal: You start acting like an adult and I promise I’ll start treating you like one.”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You think you can really do that?” She let out a disbelieving huff. “Come on, Mom, you’re . . . well, you know.”

  “What, Harper? I’m what?”

  Harper’s chin jutted. “You’re, like, paranoid. You freak out at every little thing. The dog got out and you panicked. I heard you calling for him. He’s a dog. He went sniffing into the neighbor’s yard. It’s not a big deal.”

  Rachel’s spine stiffened. She’d walked to the door, but now turned and stood in the opening to the hallway. “Things have been a little freaky lately. Weird.”

  “I know, yeah. I was there!” On the bed, Harper gave a shudder. “I get why you’re freaked out. People are dying, being killed. It’s scary, but, Mom . . . the dog?”

  “Okay, maybe I overreacted,” she admitted, thinking of how the blinds rattling the other night had caused her to become frantic, how she sensed someone watching her when there was no one around, how a prank text had caused her to consider her brother reaching out from the grave—on a cell phone no less. How she was always nervous, on edge. But then there were the murders, the vandalism, and now there was the shoe print. She cleared her throat. “I’ll work on keeping it more together.”

  “Can you?” Harper asked earnestly, even ignoring her phone as her big eyes pleaded with her mother.

  Rachel lifted a shoulder. “Don’t know, but I can give it a try.”

  Still obviously skeptical, Harper said, “Okay,” and as Rachel turned to leave, she added, “Thanks for bringing me the tea.”

  “No prob.” As Rachel closed the door to her daughter’s room, she told herself she had to find a way to get hold of herself. She had let her own worries, her fears and anxiety, get the better of her for far too long. Be strong. Be strong. Be strong. She headed upstairs, the mantra playing over and over again in her head, but she knew mind over matter wasn’t as easy as it sounded and one couldn’t just will oneself not to be anxious, but she would try, just as she had promised her daughter.

  She’d just about convinced herself that she would beat this thing when her phone vibrated in her pocket and the same simple phrase that she’d seen before appeared in a text:

  I forgive you.

  CHAPTER 26

  Rachel nearly stumbled on the top step as she stared at the message. Her heart went into overdrive as she made her way to the office and dropped into her desk chair. Frantically, she punched the function to return the call.

  No answer.

  Not unexpected.

  She tried again.

  Nothing.

  “You son of a bitch,” she ground out and texted back:

  Who is this?

  No reply.

  Who are you?

  Silence, of course.

  Why are you doing this?

  But she didn’t expect an answer and none came.

  So she fought back uselessly and typed:

  Stop texting me!

  Oh, yeah, like that’s gonna stop a freak with his sick pranks. Get real.

  She looked out the window to the foggy front yard and now invisible street. Was he even now staring at the place? Hidden by the curtain of thick mist. “You sick bastard.” She made her way around the upper story, pausing at each window to look out and check that it was closed and latched. Which of course they all were, as she’d double-checked last night. She did the same on the main floor, ignoring Harper’s indignant, “Oh, Mom, what now? You think I’m sneaking out? I thought you were going to start treating me like an adult.” In Dylan’s room she stepped over trash and some cartons of who knew what to double-check his window, then went downstairs to the basement and pushed aside some boxes she needed to recycle in the exercise room, before determining that her family was safely locked inside.

  “This is ridiculous,” she told herself as she hurried up the stairs. In the pantry she double-checked to see that the damned jerry-rigged system was engaged. It was, a green light indicating all systems were go.

  The place was locked up tight
and alarmed, but this ritual of fear was exhausting, she realized as she climbed the stairs to her office one more time. As she reached the top landing, her cell vibrated again and, expecting another cruel text, she pulled it from her back pocket.

  She felt a wave of relief when she saw her father’s number come onto the screen: Heard about last night. Harper finding the body of that woman. How is she?

  Rachel: Bad news travels fast.

  Dad: Small town and I have a few friends still on the force.

  Of course. Rachel: She’s pretty shaken up, but working through it. I think she’ll be okay.

  Dad: I hope so. Heard about the new articles in that trashy paper today. You okay?

  Rachel: I guess. You?

  Dad: I’m fine. Tougher than I look. Don’t like seeing my family put through this all again, though. Would like to strangle Mercedes Pope.

  Despite her worries, Rachel couldn’t help but smile. Get in line.

  Dad: How about your mother? How’s she handling all this BS about Luke?

  Rachel: Haven’t heard.

  Dad: Got to be hard on her. Maybe you should give her a jingle?

  Because you can’t, Rachel thought sadly. You two can’t even be in the same room at the same time.

  Rachel: Good idea. I will.

  And then: Hey, maybe we could get together?

  She felt like she could talk to her father; right now, she would like to run a few things past him. He was an ex-cop, a once-upon-a-time detective.

  Dad: I’m here.

  Rachel: I’ll give you a call.

  Dad: Look forward to it.

  As she finished texting, she heard the sound of water running in the bathroom downstairs. Someone was showering. That was progress. Once more she glanced at the anonymous text and her stomach clenched.

  This has nothing to do with Luke.

  That was the problem.

  In the back of her mind, though she knew it was crazy, a part of her wondered if the message was from her dead brother. Who else would need to forgive her?

  Cade?

  One of her kids?

  Her mother?

  Dad?

  Who?

  Once more, she tried calling the number and once more she was disappointed. Whoever had left the text had intended to and then gone dark. One message she could have believed was a mistake, but two? No way.

  Staring at the message, she thought of all the people she’d wronged in her life, and there were quite a few, but she’d never done anything worthy of some weird wireless absolution. I forgive you. As if she’d sinned, for God’s sake.

  The first message had come in twenty years to the very day she’d pulled that fateful trigger and her brother had died.

  Coincidence?

  If not . . . then who would play such a sick, cruel joke on her?

  And why?

  And what was significant about this day? It had nothing to do with that long-ago tragedy.

  Then it hit her. Both messages had been received upon the publication of the articles about the cannery.

  Worse yet, each text had been received after the murder of her classmates, two women who had testified on her behalf. A cold dread curled in her stomach. Was that it? Or was she jumping at shadows, coming to ludicrous conclusions?

  Either way, she had to find out.

  Jangled nerves be damned, she couldn’t let someone threaten her family or control her emotional state.

  She grabbed her purse and flew down the stairs, nearly running into Harper, who, dressed in a robe with her hair wrapped in a towel, was just stepping out of the bathroom. A cloud of warm mist seeped through the doorway and a quick glance inside showed the mirror completely fogged.

  “Hey, I was just going over to Grandpa’s for a few minutes,” she said to her daughter as she retrieved her keys from a side pocket in her purse. “Wanna come?” That sounded reasonable. She’d wake Dylan as well. They could all go together.

  “Are you kidding?” Harper said, motioning to the terry turban on her head. “I can’t. Not now. Besides, I’ve got tons of homework. Sometimes I think Mr. Gorson piles it on twice as much if you don’t show up to class.”

  Dad lived just across the small town, less than fifteen minutes away. And it was the middle of the morning. Rachel wanted to argue with her daughter, but this was no time to panic Harper. And she couldn’t overreact, not because of one text.

  Two texts and two murders.

  “Mom. We’ll be all right,” Harper said, as if reading her thoughts. “You’ve got that security system, right? And the dog’s with us? And we’re both here with cell phones.” She leveled a gaze at her, this girl who had witnessed a horrendous death less than twelve hours earlier. “We’ll be fine.”

  Rachel hesitated.

  “Seriously?” her daughter asked when she saw her mother’s indecision. “We can always call Dad, too. You know, the cop? And if all else fails, nine-one-one. The station is what? Ten minutes away.”

  “Okay.” Rachel relented. “I won’t be gone long. Text me if you need me.”

  “No worries,” Harper said. “Adult. Remember?” She actually floated her mother what seemed like a genuine smile.

  “Okay. I’ll just give Dylan the word.”

  “As if he cares, but whatever.”

  Rachel knocked on Dylan’s door and stepped inside his cluttered room. The window shades were drawn, the room was dark, but he was awake. Sitting in bed, propped against the headboard, he wore a headset and worked the buttons of a wireless gaming controller as he stared at a computer monitor. On the screen a military-style scenario was playing out, armed soldiers hiding behind partial walls, piles of bricks, and huge barrels as the player inched his way through a labyrinthine building.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Yeah.” His gaze didn’t shift from the screen.

  “I’m heading over to Grandpa’s. Be back in an hour. Okay?” She didn’t ask him to join her, preferred her kids be together.

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t you even going to ask about school?”

  “Figured you took care of it.” He was still working the controller and it bugged her.

  “Can you find ‘pause’ or whatever it is?”

  “But I’m in a major battle for . . .” Then he stopped; his thumbs and fingers quit moving, and he actually looked at her. “Sorry.”

  “That’s better. You’ve got homework. I saw it posted online. Do it. And there’s cereal, or toast or whatever you want in the refrigerator, for breakfast . . . or lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  “Text me if you need anything. And keep the doors locked.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, Dylan?” she added. “Do something about this room. You and I, we had a deal that you’d clean it up. Part of the arrangement when you got in trouble last week. Doesn’t seem like you’ve tackled it. So, when I get back, I want to be able to see the floor and know that it’s been vacuumed and dusted.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Got it.”

  He seemed to be listening, but sometimes she just couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t go anywhere.”

  He finally looked at her. “Like where would I go? All my friends are in school.”

  Good point. She left then and told herself she’d be gone only a half hour, forty-five minutes on the outside. What could possibly go wrong?

  * * *

  All things considered, Cade didn’t feel too bad. He’d finished the “awesome” farmer’s breakfast at Abe’s, gone home, hit the rack, and slept for four hours. When his alarm had gone off, he’d walked through a cold shower, ignored his razor, dressed, and discovered a can of Red Bull that Dylan had left in the refrigerator. After downing the energy drink, he’d sifted through e-mails, texted Rachel and the kids a couple of times, and skimmed the latest online edition of the local paper. On the way to work, he’d bought a cup of coffee and was only slightly jangled as he stepped into the office
a little after eleven.

  He’d just sat in his desk chair and was logging into his computer when Voss showed up. She was wearing her usual black slacks and jacket, with a gray blouse and a cat-who-swallowed-the-canary smile that was a little irritating considering the amount of sleep he’d had. Or, more precisely, the sleep he hadn’t gotten.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, needling him a little.

  He wasn’t in the mood, but let it pass.

  “Guess who was the last person Annessa Cooper texted?” Behind her glasses, Voss’s eyes glinted.

  “From your attitude, I’m guessing it wasn’t her husband.”

  “Nope.” Voss wagged her head back and forth, her pleased smile never shifting. “I was thinking she might have had a boyfriend she was supposed to meet, and I was right. Check your e-mail,” she said, motioning a finger at his computer monitor. “I just sent you a transcript of the texts we found on her phone. Pretty interesting stuff there.” She arched her graying eyebrows.

  Cade turned in his chair to face the screen again, then clicked on an e-mail from Voss and scrolled down.

  “This is what’s called sexting,” she said.

  He skimmed the lines, long conversations about what one of the texters planned to do to the other. Or, even more graphic, what was happening to their bodies as they communicated. “People really get off on this?”

  “All the time,” Voss told him. “It’s like they touch themselves with their free hand or just imagine the other person and, voila, an orgasm. But look at the end of the communication, the last couple of lines.” She rounded his desk and pointed to the screen where the conversation got precise.

  Caller: Meet me at St. Augustine’s. You’ve got keys.

  Annessa: Why there?

  Caller: Old times’ sake. Think about what all those nuns would say.

  Annessa: Oooh. They’d want to punish me.

  Caller: I want to punish you. You’ve been such a bad, bad girl.

  Annessa: Okay. You’ve convinced me. What time?

  Caller: Around midnight. The witching hour.

  Annessa: That’s weird.

  Caller: But you like weird, don’t you? You like things a little kinky. This is making you hot already. Just thinking about it.