by Holly Hart
Rachel won’t look at us. Seeing her like this, wan and diminished behind the Plexiglas divider, turns my fragile sense of wellbeing to one of dread. Her hair hangs limp and greasy over her shoulders; her skin’s lost its glow. Everything about her screams defeat, from her raw, chewed lips to her dejected posture.
She picks up the receiver and wipes it on her sleeve. It still looks greasy as she lifts it to her ear. “I know what you’re here for.”
I’d protest, but pretty lies won’t help her now.
“You can go home.” All the life’s drained out of her voice. She picks at a rough spot on the table, seemingly fascinated by it. “They’ll be waiting for you at your office, when you get home. Our files. I...I.... See for yourself.” Rachel goes to hang up.
“Wait! Rachel!”
She puts the phone back to her ear and says nothing.
I splay out my hand on the glass. “We didn’t come all this way just to abandon you. I’ve already been looking into lawyers, and—”
A harsh caw of laughter stops me in my tracks. “What? You’ve found one who’ll negotiate with the devil? Bring Kyle back from hell?”
My stomach turns. I swallow painfully. “Well, no, but a new bail hearing—”
“I don’t want that.”
“Rachel....”
“No.” She clings to the receiver, holding it to her cheek as though for comfort. Like a frightened child.
Kate holds out her hand. I pass her the phone, feeling helpless. She leans close to let me listen.
“I talked to your mom this morning.”
Rachel looks up—barely. Her lost expression turns avid. “Is she here? Did she bring Tom?”
“She took him home. To Lake George.” Kate’s knee’s bouncing frantically under the table, but she keeps her smile serene. “He’s doing fine. Grandpa’s teaching him to fish. They haven’t told him yet....”
“He’s not coming?” Rachel’s looking right at us now, from me to Kate and back again. I want to look away. There’s something accusing in those eyes—you let this happen; now look at me!
“I don’t... She didn’t say. But once we get you bail—”
“She hates me.” That brief light of hope goes out. Rachel’s shoulders slump. “I thought.... She hates me.”
“She doesn’t.” Kate glances at me. I squeeze her hand, at a loss for words. “I spoke to her myself. She’s worried about you. She’ll be here, soon as Tom’s settled in. She’d never keep your son from you—I’d stake my life on it.”
“She should.”
“Oh, Rachel.”
“She can’t bring him here. He can’t see.... They scream all night. Piss on the floor. Every second word out of their mouths....” She trails off, mumbling under her breath. “And once I’m convicted... Federal prison’ll be ten times worse. I can’t—he can’t....”
“I think they have video visits now. Like Skype, for....” Kate glances around. “For this kind of situation. You’ll talk to him. I promise.”
“I just want to talk to Kyle.” Rachel’s eyes wander to the door we came in by. “When they said I had visitors, I thought...I thought maybe it was a mistake. That I—that he’d somehow....” She lets her head droop again. “I can’t do this without him. How am I supposed to... He never misses tucking Tom in. Every night, no matter where he is—and he’s the one who makes breakfast. Drives us around. How do I get out of bed, knowing he’s...knowing I....” A miserable sob catches in her throat.
Kate looks like she wants to throw up. Her hand’s gone clammy in mine. “Is there anything we can do? Do you need money? Phone cards? Are we allowed to send food, or do they—”
“I’m not even pregnant.”
“Wh—what?”
Rachel’s lips twist into a rictus of despair. “It didn’t take. Again. So Kyle’s—he’s just gone. No trace of him left in the world—no part of him that gets to live on.”
Kate’s lips move soundlessly. Her leg’s gone still.
“Everything he might have been....” Rachel gouges at the back of her own hand, leaving deep, crescent-shaped marks. “Would you write something down for me? To read at the funeral?”
“They took my purse at the gate. I don’t have anything to write with. But if you call me later—sure. Anything you want.”
I look away, reeling. I feel queasy. Rachel, she’s... This isn’t her. She’s falling apart. Like Dev, maybe—was he like this, in his last moments? Rambling, full of regrets? Rachel’s pouring her heart out, in spite of Kate’s lack of a pen, all her sorrows spilling forth. It’s a goodbye—she’s saying goodbye to whoever will listen, and I can’t let her do this.
“Kate.”
Kate spares me a quick, panicked glance, and turns back to Rachel.
“Tell him to wait for me. Say...say I’m sorry I ever believed it, and if it was true—if it was true, I forgive him.” Rachel thumbs at her bare ring finger. “Put my wedding band in his hand. And his glasses; he’ll need them. Tell him I... Tell him what I said under the bridge, that time...I still mean every word.”
“I’ll tell him.”
I slip my arm around Kate’s waist. She’s tense and twitchy, damp with a cold sweat.
“I have to go now.” Rachel smiles, faint and distant.
“Wait—say you’ll—”
Too late. Rachel drops the receiver, not even bothering to set it in the cradle. A guard steps forward to hurry her away. She doesn’t look back, not even once.
Kate stands up, too. “We need to talk to someone. Get her on suicide watch, if she isn’t already. That was—that was....” She dashes her hand across her eyes. “We can’t let her do it.”
“We won’t.” I find my own feet. My temples are throbbing with the beginnings of a headache. This guy...he’s tearing us to shreds, one by one. First Dev, then Kyle. Now Rachel. I’m not holding up so well, myself: without my anger to hold onto, I’m all at sea. Dev left a hole in me when he went. Kyle tore it wider, and Rachel—she has to survive this.
“I’m going to call her mom again. Someone should be here for her. After we go back.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Back to New York. Right. We’ll have to fly back tonight. Face whatever fresh horror awaits.
Kate pulls me into a quick, tight hug. “We’ll all stick together. See this through.”
See this through. Rachel thought only the blackmailer’s death would end our ordeal. It’s easy to picture that, here in the bowels of the prison. I’d send him flying, if it were up to me. Let him feel the terror Dev must’ve felt as the ground rushed up to meet him.
I end up waiting for Kate while she talks to the warden about Rachel’s suicide watch. Finding out it’s already taken care of doesn’t brighten my mood any. Neither does the beautiful day waiting for us on the other side of the gates.
All I can think about is what’s waiting for us back home.
Chapter 22
Kate
* * *
I pound on Wes’s door—no answer. Fuck. He’s not in his room, not in the bar... Where else would he be?
Max sounded urgent on the phone. Panicked, even: it’s bad. You round up Wes—I’ll find Carson. We need to.... Just get here.
What could possibly be worse than yesterday?—worse than seeing Rachel like that?
And where the hell is Wes?
A text pops up on my phone: whqts te bug emrgcny?—and another: im in the lobby.
Bug emrgcny? If he’s drunk, I swear to God....
Wes staggers into view as I step off the elevator. He looks like he’s been drinking all day. Smells like it too, even from ten paces back.
“Oh. Kate.” He regards me blearily. “Your face—you....”
I lean back to keep him from poking me in the eye. Instead of touching my stitches, he falls into my arms. With some difficulty, I set him back on his feet. He’s swaying, weaving—this won’t do. “You need to take a cold shower. Have some coffee. I’ll let Max know we’ll be late.”
He laugh
s. “Mmm...Maxwell House. How’s he holding up?” A goofy grin splits his face. “Good to the last drop?”
Oh, hell. Not this again. “Ssh—come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”
“I was thinking about that on the plane. About Matt and his stupid nicknames.” Wes slumps against me, still giggling. “Y’know, I got called a lot of names, these last couple of days, by some folks with every reason to hate me, but none of ‘em stung quite like—”
“Tch—don’t think about it.”
“—like Skidmarks.”
I wince. I was there the first time Matt called him that. It was right at the height of Matt’s reign of terror, and we’d made a pact: Wes wasn’t to be left alone. So I was walking him to his English class when Matt shouldered past him—out of the way, Skidmarks! And Wes’s face fell, and everyone turned to look, and Matt saw how much it upset him—that might’ve been the beginning of the end.
“You have no idea how badly I wanted to be one of the clean kids...the shiny kids, with their—with their perfect hair, and their...their clothes that didn’t come from the Salvation Army.” He trips, and I catch him. “I’d never have been...unwashed. Especially like that. I—”
“I know.”
“You don’t.” He stumbles to a halt, halfway into the elevator. The doors try to close and bump his elbows. A buzzer goes off.
“Come on—you’ll get squished. Or ripped in half.”
Wes wriggles out of my grasp. “You don’t get it. Our dog had fleas—Matt’s dad was our vet. We couldn’t afford deodorant one week, I’m the fucking BO guy. He’d rub dog shit on my seat so I’d smell like....” The doors shut on him again. He flings out his arms with an incoherent shout. “I was filth to him. And I haven’t been able to scrub it off, not in ten years—maybe not ever.”
People are starting to stare. I grab him by the lapels and yank him into the elevator. “Do I need to slap you?”
Wes sags. He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“Okay—then I need you to listen.” I tap him under the chin to get him to look up. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah.” There’s a sulky note to his voice, like he’s fifteen again.
“This is what he does. The blackmailer. He preys on our vulnerabilities. Throws our insecurities in our faces. Being broke doesn’t make you dirty or gross.” I straighten out his lapels and brush imaginary lint off his shoulders. “Look at you. You’re spotless. Not a stain or a scuff—not a single flake of dandruff. And your tie—check out that perfect Windsor knot.”
He looks down at himself, all owlish confusion. “I’ll probably have to pawn it. Do pawnshops take ties?”
“No. And, hey—even if you had to trade in your Burberry for Old Navy, you’d make it work. You’re not that kid any more.” I tousle his hair. “Not to mention which, you’ve got me. I’d never let you fall that far. None of us would.”
“Unless you fall with me.” He fidgets with his tie, loosening the knot. “And you will. He’s a black hole. We’re a doomed constellation.”
“Very poetic.” The elevator reaches our floor, and I herd him off. “Come on. Let’s get you sober.”
Wes drops his keycard twice, trying to get into his room. I take it from him and let him in. He stands in the hall, eyes darting between the bathroom and the bed, like he’s not sure where to go.
“Shower first. I’ll make the coffee.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “I think....” His legs give out on him, and he slumps heavily against the wall. “Don’t think I’m going to make it.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“No.” He sinks to his knees. “Been drinking since the plane. So...eight hours up there, another five, six on the ground....” A woeful whine escapes him. “I’m still drunk, and I already have a hangover. Just lay me down with a barf bucket. I’ll be fine.”
He does look awful. Worse, in the bright light from the bathroom.
“Let’s at least put you to bed.”
Wes stretches out his arms like a toddler wanting to be picked up. I help him to his feet, and together, we shuffle across the room. One of his shoes falls off along the way. I deposit him on the bed as carefully as I can, but he’s practically dead weight in my arms. He ends up face down in the pillows.
I nudge at his shoulder. “Turn over.”
“Mmph. Go away.”
“You need to roll onto your side.” I tug a little harder, and he co-operates this time, curling up like a shrimp. “Try and get some sleep, huh?”
“Room’s spinning.”
I empty out the ice bucket and set it down beside him. “Just in case.”
Wes grunts.
“It’ll be all right. You’ll see. You’ll sleep this off, and by morning, you’ll be your old self again.” I pull off his other shoe and set to work on his coat. Already, he’s breaking out in a sick sweat.
“Stay with me?”
Fuck. I want to—I really do. Leaving my pukey, weepy best friend to his misery...that’s low. But Max sounded desperate on the phone. Whatever Rachel sent him, it can’t have been good. Oh, God—what if it wasn’t just for her? What if there was another video?—or instructions for the rest of us? I need to get over there.
“Kate?”
Wes’s portable alarm clock’s flashing half past five. I can stay a while. “Till you fall asleep?”
“Thanks.” He rubs his clammy face on the pillow with a deep groan. My hand moves in soothing circles on his back. I’ve hushed him to sleep this way before: after his dad’s accident—we barely knew each other then. And again, after Matt, in the locker room—the incident, we called it. It’s working now, as it did then. I can feel his breathing evening out.
My phone vibrates in my purse, but Max can wait. He’ll understand: he’ll have to. He’d have done the same for Dev. Still would for any of us.
Chapter 23
Max
* * *
They’re late, all of them. It’s unsettling—more so, in a way, than what I have to show them. Wes, I get, but Kate’s always early, and Carson—he’s a soldier, for fuck’s sake. Pathologically on time.
It’s all coming down around our ears. That’s what this is: the end.
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up mid-ring. “Hello?”
“Front desk, sir. I’ve a Miss Miller to see you, and a Mr.—”
“Send them up.”
I march out to the foyer. The elevator seems to take forever, creeping from floor to floor like it’s being dragged through honey. It’s Carson who gets off with Kate—they came together? That’s weird, too.
“Where’s Wes?”
“Sick in bed.” Kate starts to say something else. Carson’s braying laughter interrupts her.
“Yeah. ‘Sick’. Like us in New Orleans.”
I grimace. Mardi Gras 2010: an ocean of beer, way too many shots, and an 8AM flight the next day. I’m still sick from that. “Poor Wes.”
Carson scoffs. “Right. We doing this, or what?”
Yeah. “We can’t wait. Kate—you’ll need to fill him in.”
I lead the way to the living room, not waiting for her response. Carson takes my seat by the fireplace, shifting my laptop out of the way to claim it for himself. I swallow my annoyance: he’s a big guy. And it is the most capacious chair. Kate settles herself on a hassock, leaving me with...hell. Dev’s chair. He always sat there. I blink away a recent memory—me and him on New Year’s Eve, toasting our resolutions in front of a crackling fire. His was to quit worrying what other people thought. Mine was—
“Earth to Max.” Carson twirls his finger like a radio antenna. I sit down, coloring slightly.
“The flash drives are still our dirty little secret.” I pat my breast pocket. “Rachel sent me hers and Kyle’s, and one more she’d received, before she....” Decorated the carpet with Kyle’s brains. I wave my hand. They don’t need to hear that. “The original files—they were pretty much what you’d expect. Except, Kyle cheated on Rachel, their first year
at Cornell.”
Carson snorts. I ignore him.
“So, Kyle thought he got away with it, but on Rachel’s list...it says she mailed sardines to his lover. Media mail, so they’d be nice and stinky by the time they arrived.”
Kate raises her head at that, but her expression doesn’t change.
“And here’s what she got for defying the blackmailer.” I turn my laptop around, not wanting to read it aloud: I love a good game of chicken, but this is truth or dare...and you’re neither honest nor brave. Don’t worry: I’m not going to tell the world your secrets. Frankly, they’re rather a snore. Your husband’s, on the other hand.... See attached image.
The picture’s already open. It’s a blown-out shot of Kyle on the steps of the Smithsonian—Kyle, and a plump, blue-eyed blonde. They’re both laughing. He’s got his hand on the small of her back, almost on her ass. It’s a familiar gesture. Too familiar.
Carson’s eyes narrow. “Lying sack of—”
Always with the finger-pointing. “We don’t know that.”
“Not Kyle. The blackmailer.” He gestures at the screen. “Her and Kyle—that’s not what it looks like.”
“And you know this how?”
He grips his own knees aggressively. “I just do. That’s—he helped her out with an insurance thing.”
“Who is she?”
“What does it matter?” Carson lurches to his feet. “She’s nobody. Irrelevant.” He stalks off, but only as far as the window. “What matters is this asshole’s pulling us apart thread by thread, and we’re falling for it. Hook, line, and sinker.”
Kate’s staring at her shoes. That glassy, distant look’s back. Has been, since we saw Rachel. She’s starting to worry me.
“Kate?”
It takes her a moment to look up. “Sorry. Just thinking about what Carson said. About him picking us apart.” She squints and presses her palm to her forehead, massaging between her eyes.
“You okay?”
