by Nina Laurin
“I’ll have to leave town. I don’t suppose you have any more money?”
I shake my head. “Not right now. Not…here.”
“Just help me. Help me prove I didn’t do it.”
“I don’t know how.” I’m this close to crying, my voice thin and brittle.
“You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.”
“No one can know that we spoke,” I say hoarsely. “Let alone met.”
“I know that. I’m going to leave now. I have to hurry before—” Before someone finds her in your apartment, I finish for him in my head. And I will be left to clean up your mess. “You took care of the phone?”
“Yeah. She has a burner, like all these kids. There will be no trace.”
“The police—they’re going to ask you questions about tonight. What are you going to tell them?”
“Let me take care of that. Just go.”
I watch him as he turns around and runs off into the night. I don’t dare look away for even a second. I don’t dare blink, my gaze glued to the back of his jacket. My eyes are starting to burn when I can finally be sure he’s vanished into the surrounding darkness.
I get back inside the car and check the time on the dashboard: 3:32 a.m. All this only took ten minutes, even though it felt like a lifetime.
And if I can’t explain away these minutes, we’re both screwed. Especially me.
You’ll go far for me, Addie, but you’ll go even further to cover your own ass. You never changed.
I give a violent shake of my head to get rid of him, and in that same moment, I know what to do. I start the engine, my foot resolutely poised to hit the gas pedal. My body feels floaty and light, disconnected from my mind, like half my blood’s been drained.
I know exactly what I’m going to tell the police, the detectives, and everyone else.
Before I can change my mind, I put the car in reverse. The tires squeal, and my breath catches. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know how easy it is to read tire tracks. It’s starting to rain; droplets bead on the windshield. The forecast said something about downpours late at night and in the early morning. Hopefully, that’ll take care of it.
Hopefully, hopefully.
I’m far enough now. My foot trembles slightly but I steady it. I shift gears and slam my foot onto the gas pedal.
The sky, the road, the tree careen toward me.
Bang.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I should have known it was him the whole time. From the first time Adele Schultz showed up at the shelter and demanded I pay her off.
Pacing the tiny bathroom, trying to avoid looking in the direction of the bathtub—of Sunny—I agonize, painfully aware of the seconds ticking away. Each and every one of them could make the difference for me. Move ahead one square or go to prison? Should I take the belt, try to get rid of it somehow? I watch those documentary shows about catching criminals so I know it never works out. I can drown it in bleach, throw it into a sewer, and it will still turn up just in time to put the proverbial noose around my neck.
Then I think of the deep purple-black mark around Sunny’s throat and can barely hold back gagging. If I touch that belt, I just know I’ll throw up. That’s DNA evidence, putting me squarely on the scene. I try to push it from my mind.
Focus, Andrea. I draw a deep breath. I need to get out of here—that’s what I need to do.
And leave her? I make myself glance at the shape curled up in the tub. I’ve never seen a dead body up close, not when the house burned down, not later at the funeral, which I didn’t attend because I was in the hospital. I’ve seen news footage of it—a three-second clip, just long enough to see that it was closed casket, of course. No bodies, only tacky flowers everywhere and the press, taking pictures.
Her face is chalky now, colorless, but it’s still her face, the same girl I’ve spoken to dozens of times. Like she was only in there minutes ago. Like she could still be in there, trapped in all that still, dead flesh. My skin crawls just thinking about it.
I have no choice. Not like there’s anything I can do for her. She’s dead. Getting myself thrown into prison isn’t going to undo that.
Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself.
I exit the bathroom, leaving the door open. I want to close it but don’t want to touch it even one more time than I have to, even through my sleeve. It takes seconds to cross the main room to the entrance but just as I reach for the front door, I freeze.
How long ago did she die?
I can’t stop myself from shuddering as my gaze darts all over the apartment like a trapped sparrow. It lingers on the window, taking in the stripes of artificial orange light that fall through the blinds. In that moment, I get a distinct, spine-tingling feeling I can’t mistake for anything: I am seen. He could be watching me right now, I catch myself thinking, and before common sense can get the better of me, I race to the window, part the blinds clumsily with my sleeves covering my fingers, and peer out.
But all I see is the building across the street, its windows a random pattern of darkness and light. Down below, I can see the empty sidewalk, a couple of cars parked here and there, and the corner of a playground.
I turn my attention back to the building across the street. Any one of those windows could be hiding him. I picture him watching me silently from across the street the whole time, making sure I came here and found the present he’d left me for my troubles.
God. All I did was…all I did was use a girl’s phone a couple of times. I’ve used other people’s phones, too, and they didn’t end up dead. Because their phones were pay-and-go, untraceable.
All Sunny did was wander into the shelter where the wrong person was working. All she did was find a safe place to sleep at night.
No matter how I twist and turn it around in my head, I can’t find a version where her death isn’t my fault. But it wasn’t you who strangled her with a belt, I tell myself. It’s the kind of thing Eli would say, without a doubt, and I continue the mental dialogue.
Yeah, I’m sure it makes a huge difference to her.
But it makes a difference where the law is concerned—that’s for damn sure, he sneers. For some reason, his voice in my head doesn’t sound like the man I met on a deserted road three days ago. It sounds like the twelve-year-old boy, already making that transition between boy and man.
I should leave. Right fucking now.
I let go of the blinds so abruptly that they jolt on their strings, raising a small cloud of dust, and I step back. I back out of the apartment, doing my best to stay focused and touch nothing with my bare hands, and quietly but firmly shut the door behind me.
When I next become self-aware, I’m on the highway, driving slightly above the speed limit. Disorientation gives way to confusion. I’m going the wrong way; this isn’t the direction back home, to the town house. The lateral part of my mind that’s been making decisions in my stead clearly chose to go someplace else. The exit I’ve taken numerous times before looms ahead, closer and closer. I can just go past and then take the next one, turn around.
But instead, I decide to listen to my subconscious and take the exit ramp that leads right into Cynthia’s neighborhood.
Both cars are there, the SUV and Leeanne’s sedan, taking up all the driveway space. I park by the sidewalk and go ring the doorbell, puzzled when pressing down on the button yields no result. Nothing resonates in the house beyond. Cynthia must have taken the batteries out.
Cursing, I knock, at first softly, and then pound on the door with my open palms, which finally gets her attention. There are hurried steps behind the door, and then her voice:
“If you’re press, you’re wasting your time. I’m not going to open this door if you pay me.”
“It’s me,” I say. Her stunned silence is my answer. It occurs to me that she might not let me in. Why would she, after all? All I did was bring trouble to her door, time and time again.
But moments later, the locks click, and the
door opens.
“Andrea,” she says as she lets me past. The second I’m inside, she calmly shuts the door and turns all the locks.
“Well,” she says, lips pursed. We inspect each other, mistrustful. She’s without makeup, a sight I’ve seen only a handful of times in all the years I’ve lived with her, and now I’m shocked to realize how much older she looks underneath it all. She’s dressed in slippers and that bathrobe she has that is more accurately described as a housecoat, a heavy, quilted, satin thing that has to be vintage and designer.
“Here you are,” she says. “Finally.”
“I just want to go to my room. Please. I’m tired, Cynthia.”
“I imagine you must be. That your car out front?”
I nod.
“I’ll have Leeanne take it back to the rental place.”
I start to protest.
“Keys,” she says, holding out her hand palm up. I can’t argue. I take the car key out of my pocket and hand it over. It disappears in the pocket of her robe.
“The offer still stands, by the way,” she says, looking at me pointedly. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
I look at her, slack-jawed, unsure what she’s talking about.
“The lawyer,” she explains. “I’ll give him a call, and he’ll be here in ten.”
“No lawyer,” I protest. At the same time, I’m wondering if she’s right. Whether I did come here only for the sake of the comfort and protection that she and her family, and their money, always represented. Without even realizing it, I came running back to Mommy—or the closest thing I had to one—with my tail between my legs. It’s not a comforting thought.
“Fine. Whenever you’re ready. He’s been warned of the situation. Told me to tell you not to talk to police or to that Figueroa woman—especially that Figueroa woman.” My gaze flees from hers, and she groans under her breath. “You already did.”
“I didn’t tell her anything.”
“Good. None of us will talk to her either. Go sleep, or whatever you need to do. And you have my word on this: No one will cross the threshold of this house without a pile of warrants signed by God himself.”
I start toward the staircase leading to my old room but remember my manners and stop.
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.
Once I’m in the four familiar walls of my old room, I collapse facedown on my narrow bed and breathe in the smell of the bedspread, the harsh cleaning products Cynthia uses mixed with dust and the scent of disuse. The bedspread’s generic pattern is the last thing I see before I close my eyes.
When I open them next, the ceiling light is off, and the room is dark. And there are voices downstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
After the fire, after a trial that took three months—all of which I’d spent in the burn ward—my brother was sentenced to twelve years, half of them in a high-security psychiatric facility. Despite the outrage this caused in the media back in the day, the place was no different from any ordinary prison. I know this much because I looked the place up online. I went as far as finding an obscure forum with testimonials. Patients—inmates—aren’t allowed to have shoes, pens or pencils, or belts, among other things. They’re almost never left unsupervised. During mandatory classes, they write with soft-tip markers that are collected at the end of the class. Anyone who visits must have a special authorization and present two pieces of ID.
I could never go see him, for obvious reasons, even long after I moved out of Cynthia’s house. And I’d be lying if I said I was particularly eager to. All those twelve years, I lived in a fictional world, able to pretend that none of it ever happened. Even though my burn scars never allowed me to pretend there never was a fire, I was still able to explain it away, in my own imagination. In that parallel world inside my mind, Eli either died in the fire along with my mother and Sergio, or never existed at all. But like in one of those tales about people who make deals with the devil, I spent those twelve years living in dread and fear. Knowing that I might have been enjoying my freedom then but soon the day would arrive when the devil came to collect his dues.
If Eli were ever to contact me, I was supposed to report it to the authorities immediately. I still wonder what would have happened if I had. He would not have hesitated to tell them my secret—this much is certain. But would anyone have believed him, a convicted murderer, a known liar as far as everyone knew? And perhaps, had I been thinking rationally instead of being ruled by my fear, I would have taken advantage of that to cut my ties with my brother forever.
But after that first time, a day went by, then a week, then a month, and then I could no longer report him without raising questions. Then he contacted me again. And again.
You owe me. If I go to prison, I’m taking you with me.
We are bound by this secret, bound inescapably. Or rather, I am bound to him. He has nothing left to lose, and I have everything.
The night of April 10, when I crashed my car, just moments before it collided with the tree, a thought flashed through my mind: Please, let me crash too hard. Maybe if I’m dead or quadriplegic or whatever, I’ll be no use to him anymore, and he’ll leave me alone. And so I pressed my foot into the gas pedal, and I hoped.
I wondered fleetingly, like I had many times before, if it was all a big game to him. Keeping me tied to him forever. Tormenting me forever.
That’s ridiculous, of course. He’s the one who went to prison; he’s the one whose life was ruined while I lived with my new adoptive family, the perfect family by all appearances. While I had every opportunity at my disposal. I should be ashamed for even thinking that—but funny how that works: Being ashamed never makes the thoughts go away. On the contrary.
Now I don’t know what to think anymore.
The first time we met was two weeks after he got out. I was already dating Milton, and it was getting serious. I was working at the shelter, the day shifts—a lot less crowded and more manageable. It didn’t take him longer than that to track me down and learn where I worked. I was there when he called me from a burner phone. I was in one of the little offices, busy with paperwork, and I swear, the moment my desk phone rang, I knew deep down in my bones that it was him.
“Meet me out back,” was all he said the moment I picked up. I didn’t have time to say anything, not even hello. Not that hello was worth much after more than a decade in prison for something he didn’t do.
“There are cameras,” I said in an even voice, quiet enough not to be overheard through the paper-thin walls.
“Out of range. No one will know.”
I went. Of course I went. Not like I had a choice.
With every step I took away from the shelter, I felt like my skin was being stripped away stripe by stripe, leaving me a raw and vulnerable piece of meat and nerves.
He waited for me just off the parking lot behind the shelter, behind the trash cans and recycling containers. He looked relaxed, leaning on one of them, like we last saw each other yesterday.
“Hi, Addie,” he said. “Looking good. How’ve you been?”
The sight of him knocked the breath out of me. I stood there, a few feet away from him, unable to move, my eyes swimming with tears. He was no longer beautiful—somehow, that was the first thing to register in my mind, not without an undercurrent of glee. He’d put on weight, his face was puffy, with bags under his eyes, and unhealthily pale, his hair greasy and flat.
“What? You don’t have anything to say?”
The tears overflowed, and I choked out two miserable, little words. “I’m sorry.”
He watched me cry, and a grin spread over his face, so familiar, like not a minute had passed since we were twelve.
“I’m not sorry at all,” he said. “Look at you. You’re doing something with your life. You’re helping people!”
I wished he hadn’t said that. Twelve years and still, I could never be sure if he meant it or if every word was sarcasm.
“All thanks to me. Right? Honestly, I half
expected to find you strung out on Valium, seeing four shrinks a week. How is Leeanne?”
“You know about Leeanne?” I stammered.
“Yeah. You may never have come to visit but I did keep track of you. At least when you were on the news.”
“You know I couldn’t come to visit,” I said through my teeth. “You shouldn’t even be here now.”
“What, you’re telling me to leave? To get out? And we just reunited after so long.”
“You weren’t supposed to call me.”
“No one’s gonna know unless either of us tells them. You want me to just, what, disappear from your life—when I need you most?”
You don’t need me, I almost said. You never did. “Do you—do you have a place to stay?”
“I’m at a halfway house. But I’ll be out of there by the end of the month. Back in the real world, for good.”
“For good,” I echoed.
“You know what I’ve been dying to do? To get a cheeseburger. A double, and a milkshake, the works. Supersize fries and all.”
I found myself fumbling for my wallet, handing over all the cash I had inside—sixty-odd dollars. I held it out to him in an almost supplicating gesture.
He looked at me, then at my outstretched arm, and then at the money. He had a look of pity on his face. “You think that’s what it takes to make me leave?”
“Just take it. Please.”
He did, his gaze never once leaving mine, like he was trying to hypnotize me. He took the bills from my hand and slowly, with deliberation, ripped them up, once, twice, three times, reducing them to green confetti.
“You should get a burner phone. We’re going to need a way to communicate without anyone nosing around, aren’t we?”
“No. Absolutely not.” My voice trembled, and I willed it to steady. “You can never call me or text me.”
“Texting. Yeah, that’s a thing now, isn’t it? I’m so out of touch with the times.”
I continued. “I’ll be getting in touch with you. Every month—”
