Taking a deep breath, I grasped the faucet with both hands and turned it off. I grabbed a towel from the perfectly folded stack I had placed above the sink and patted both hands dry, careful not to abrade my chafed skin any further. It stung, and the pain actually felt good.
That was bad.
When pain felt good, I was in trouble.
I reached for my purse and took out my therapy journal and a pen. There were things I had already marked today. I had pumped gas and bought groceries at the gas station and had not washed my hands right away. And I was wearing a frayed sweatshirt and jeans with a hole at the knee.
Everyone with OCD had different issues. For me, there were three main things I needed to do every day: Avoid washing my hands excessively, expose myself to foods that triggered my contamination fears, and the biggie—allow myself to be imperfect.
Besides practicing relaxation techniques, forcing myself to break obsessive habits was an effective treatment for the “little” OCD problem that had plagued me for the past thirteen years. I had promised my therapist I would keep up my homework by journaling daily steps I was taking to overcome my obsessions.
Grandma’s old radio was propped up on the ledge that separated the tiny dining area and the kitchen. I turned the low-tech knob until I heard the beat of a pop radio station I would never have played at home.
Reaching into the grocery bag, I pulled out a couple of impulse purchases I’d made at the gas station mini-mart that morning. I was ready to add a few unofficial items to my journal.
Cigarettes and cheap wine.
For months, I had stayed silent as the Ohio media had skewered my reputation. A picture someone took on their cell phone of me handcuffed had made a great front-page newspaper photo. The articles that went with the picture were even worse. I was a spoiled party girl. My job had been handed to me on a silver platter. I didn’t respect the average taxpayer. As a congressman’s daughter, I was supposed to be an example.
When I had told my therapist I was moving to my grandmother’s house this summer, she thought it might be good for me. She said it was possible I was experiencing a late-phase teenage rebellion I had been repressing for years. I joked with her that if that was the case, I should sleep with a few lumberjacks while I was at it. She raised her eyebrows and said it wasn’t a bad idea. Too bad the logging industry in Michigan was dead.
I pulled the wrapper off the cigarettes. My recently turned ex-boyfriend, Colin, hated cigarettes. Everyone thought it was just his reaction to the fact that they caused cancer and smelled bad. But it was more than that. Colin actually hated people who smoked. He once fired an employee just for smoking on the sidewalk outside his office building. He didn’t even know the employee’s name.
I turned the wine bottle around and examined the price sticker. $3.99. It would have horrified Colin. He boasted that he could taste the difference between a grand cru and a premier cru without even looking at the label.
What had he said to me the night of my arrest? “I don’t want to be tainted by your actions.”
“Screw Colin!” I said out loud. Ha! Well, evidently my little sister already had. Not for the first time, I wondered if she had enjoyed it any more than I had. But that was a worry for another day.
I wasn’t the kind of girl who swore.
Or the kind of girl who smoked and drank.
In fact, my life could be taken straight from the pages of Emily Post. I knew which fork to use for shellfish, how to address heads of state, and often wrote thank-you notes for thank-you notes. I straightened my unruly hair each morning, applied only the most subtle pink lip gloss, and my idea of casual was a pair of perfectly creased dark jeans.
But that was going to change. Tonight called for a massive gesture.
Feeling brave and impulsive, I reached for my pen and added one more unofficial thing to the to-do list at the back of my journal.
Take a big risk. I didn’t know what that would be, but I was looking forward to finding out.
I pushed the journal away and unscrewed the bottle cap. What was the routine my father and Colin always went through when they opened a bottle of fine wine at dinner parties? Swirl. Sniff. And sip.
I turned the bottle in a circular motion, ignoring the amber fluid that spilled over the top.
Then I held it to my nose and took a whiff. It smelled like hand sanitizer.
I closed my eyes, blocking out the sight of the grimy bottle and raised it to my lips. Forcing the liquid past my tongue, I took an unladylike gulp.
The tannins and sugars attacked my palette and went up my nostrils, making me gasp.
Then the aftertaste . . . vinegar with a hint of Kool-Aid.
I belched unexpectedly. The sound filled the room and echoed off the walls. Almost as loud as one of Elliot’s burps. A feeling of pride made me smile.
I took another sip. And another.
The last few weeks had been a living hell. But now I was in the middle of nowhere. Not a single soul could bother me. Wiping the wine dribble from my lower lip, I moved into the living room. My insides were warming up and I let my hips sway. I reached for the knob on the radio and turned up the volume. Taking my bottle with me, I went in search of matches.
I lost track of time. A happy glow was spreading upwards through my chest. I caught the beat of the music and twirled around and around, dancing from the kitchen to the living room.
Before I knew it, the bottle was almost empty and the butts of two cigarettes rested in a piece of foil I had turned into an ashtray. Everything was spinning and the room around me was bathed in a fuzzy radiance. A rap song played on the radio, and even though I had absolutely no idea what the words were, I danced to the beat with a passion that Colin, my ex, would say I had never been able to exhibit in bed.
I held my cigarette up, ready to attempt my first twerk, when I heard a loud pounding at the window. I froze with my bottom sticking straight out.
A beam of light distorted an image on the other side of the pane, making it look like a monster. Suddenly, the fact that I was alone in the middle of the woods wasn’t such a great thing.
I opened my mouth to scream. But it was like a bad horror movie. Nothing came out. A hand pounded on the window again, almost shattering it.
I lowered everything—the bottle, the cigarette, and the ridiculous pose I had been attempting—and finally found my vocal cords. My bloodcurdling scream cut through the bass of the music and gave me the energy to move. I set down the bottle and smashed the butt of the cigarette into the foil wrapper. I tried to remember where my phone was.
Bumping into the ledge of the table, I almost lost my footing. My cell phone was on the counter where I had left it earlier. I grabbed it, praying that there was some sort of cellular service up here.
The pounding increased. Making a split-second decision and hoping I wasn’t being rash, I dialed 911, and reached for the volume on the radio. I heard the bored-sounding voice of a woman on the other end. I didn’t even let her finish her introductory message. “I think someone is trying to break in!”
There was a pause. “Can you tell me the address?”
What was the address? I didn’t even know that. I knew how to get here. Where to turn at the fork in the road where the Fire Danger sign stood. But I had little else.
“It’s my grandmother’s house. Doris Blodget. She used to live here. Crooked Road.” From the other room I heard the footsteps on the back porch. No one knew I was here. The house had been empty for years.
“Hurry.”
“Ma’am, you need to stay calm.”
Were these the fatal last words that every murder victim was forced to hear?
“Easy for you to say.” I cradled the phone in my neck and started to open drawers, looking for a weapon.
I could hear a man shouting from outside.
The lady raised her voice. “There is an officer on the way, ma’am.”
I grabbed the only weapon I could find, a soup ladle, and peered around the corner of the ki
tchen.
The pounding had moved to the front door. A deep voice shouted, “Harrison County Sheriff’s Department!”
I dropped the phone and tiptoed to the door.
“Lady! Can you hear me? Sheriff’s Department,” came the muffled voice through the door.
I reached for the doorknob. The sweat on my palms made it difficult to turn the handle. I pulled the door open just enough to be able to see who was on the other side.
The shadows and a red glare behind him obscured his face and all I could see was a vaporized cloud of breath disappearing in the cool night air between us.
“Yes?” I croaked.
“Sheriff’s Department.”
A badge appeared and there was a moment of silence. “The badge isn’t part of a Halloween costume, in case you were wondering . . .”
A strange moment of clarity hit me and my fear turned into something equally painful. I looked over the dark outline at an SUV with blinking red lights.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
Since my arrest in March I had learned a few things about my rights. Things I should have remembered from my high-school civics class. I didn’t have to let law enforcement search my vehicle or my house. “Why?” I asked.
“I just want to check—”
“Do you have a warrant?”
I heard him shift restlessly “Look, lady, you’ve got—”
“I know my rights and you can’t come in without a warrant.”
“But—”
“You might look scary and tough, but I won’t be bullied.” I attempted to close the door, but a hand snaked out and grabbed my own.
“I don’t think you understand—”
Something tickled at my nose, but I was too busy trying to smash his hand with the soup ladle to consider it. He was way out of line trying to barge in like this.
Boom! The door burst open, trapping me against the wall in the process. “Hey!”
This was definitely in violation of my rights.
I moved the door out of my way and felt a surge of anger. The man stomped up and down in the middle of the living room. His actions were so strange that I stopped protesting and watched him in confusion. A tiny spark disappeared under his boots and smoke rose from the floor. He put down his flashlight, reached for my bottle of wine, and poured the remaining contents on the carpet. A billowing fog of steam rose up.
“I was drinking that!”
He turned around and our eyes locked. “I’ll make sure to mention that in my report,” he said.
I looked at a spot in the rug that now sported a nice-sized black hole that was almost the same color as his eyes. It dawned on me that the cigarette must have landed on the rug.
“Well, I didn’t realize—” I bit my lip. What an idiot I was. “All you had to do was explain.”
“I tried. In between showing you my badge and using your precious bottle as a fire hose. . . .” He brought it to his nose. “What is this stuff? Cough syrup?”
“That is good wine.”
He looked at the price sticker and raised his eyebrow. “Obviously.”
He set down the bottle. “I’ve seen too many fires caused by a single spark from a cigarette. That makes the fact that I entered this house to ensure your safety perfectly legal. Look it up.”
I struggled for something to say. “You—you could have told me.” “It takes a long time for fire trucks to reach this road and there isn’t a lot of time for a—” My cell phone chimed a Disney theme song from the floor where I had dropped it.
His mouth tilted and he must have recognized the song. “Your fairy godmother is calling you,” he said in a snarky voice that was completely unnecessary.
I picked up the phone and accepted the call. “Are you all right, ma’am?” As the dispatcher spoke, the officer stepped closer. I was painfully aware of him towering over me. My eyes traveled over him, taking in the hard body underneath the dark jacket, and the badge that he still held.
“I don’t suppose you could send someone else?” I asked the dispatcher.
He narrowed his eyes and I added, “Never mind . . . Everything is fine. Thanks.”
The dispatcher sounded amused when she hung up. Great . . . I was about to be the newest joke in the county.
I must have looked ready to fall over because Officer Smug took my arm and lowered me to a sitting position on the springless couch. Then he moved about the room, double-checking the house and looking at the boxes against the wall.
“At least my ears have stopped ringing,” he said a moment later. “I don’t know what was louder, your music or your screaming. What was that thing you were doing?”
I wrapped my hands around my waist and mumbled, “It was a twerk.”
“A what?”
“A twerk,” I said louder.
He stifled a laugh with a phony cough. “Is that something like an itch?”
I did not appreciate his sense of humor.
He came back to me and leaned down, examining me more closely. The muscles on his square jaw tightened, and then he compressed his lips and did something surprising. He removed his coat and tucked it, still warm from his own body, around my shoulders. I blinked. I must have been shaking. I almost thanked him for his kindness. But I stayed mute as heat burned a path to my face.
For someone who had been so dangerous just minutes ago, this man was now—well, terrifying in a new way.
The lines of his face were chiseled, and his dark, close-cut wavy hair fell across his forehead. He had charcoal eyes and hawklike brows that watched me as if I were a field mouse. A shadow of dark stubble was starting on the lower half of his face. He was probably one of those men who couldn’t go a day without shaving, especially if he was supposed to look like one of the good guys. And his broad shoulders were so wide they blocked the light from the ceiling.
Why was I thinking like this? I struggled to find my equilibrium. It had been natural to be scared when I saw him at the window. He could have played a serial killer on TV—the kind who seduced, then killed. Perhaps some women might be attracted to that, but I was more accustomed to clean-cut, preppy men.
He stared as if he was trying to figure out how he was going to deal with a crazy lady like me. The sound of the furnace kicking in again broke the silence.
“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Deputy Sheriff J. D. Hardy. We received a report of a light on here. I don’t suppose you want to explain why you’re having your own personal party inside a vacant house?”
“Not really.” I didn’t want to tell him about the events that blew my world apart and the reason I had run away from my former life. Clutching the coat he placed around my shoulders, I tilted my chin down and inhaled, noting the scent of pine and something else I couldn’t name.
“Your weapon, although unique, isn’t exactly banned,” he said, gesturing to the soup ladle I still clutched. “But you are trespassing on private property.”
I was only too happy to prove him wrong. “This house belonged to my grandmother—well, my parents now.”
“And your name is. . . .”
“Elizabeth Lively. ”
“Okay, Beth. You know I am going to need to have that verified.”
“Elizabeth. My license is—”
He turned back to the kitchen before I could say a word. Taking in the empty bottle of wine now on the table near my knees and the way he had found me, I realized how this looked.
“I left a message with the real-estate agent to let him know I would be staying here for a while. You can call him to confirm it. The name is on the For Sale sign leaning against the side of the house,” I explained.
“Yeah. I know him.” He held up my purse and seemed to weigh it and shift it, making sure there was nothing dangerous inside. “Can I look for identification or do I need a warrant?” I couldn’t figure out if he was trying to be funny or not.
“I’ll get it for you.”
He watched closely as I put down the soup ladle and sifted
through the contents of my large designer purse. Three bottles of hand sanitizer and a package of sanitizing towelettes, sealed facial cleansing wipes, two packs of facial tissues, a clear plastic bag with safety pins, a pack of Band-Aids . . . With every item I shifted around, I felt my face grow hotter. By the time I got to my large wallet, with pockets for change, credit cards, a calendar, a checkbook, and female hygiene products, his mouth was pinching at the corners. It wasn’t that strange. Many girls carried this much in their purse. Finally, I removed my driver’s license and he picked up his radio from the floor nearby. He made the brief phone call to verify my story.
Taking advantage of the time to pull myself together again, I brought my hands up to my head and tried to smooth my tangled hair. Nobody had been killed, or fired, or ruined. As difficult as this situation was, it was a minor bump in the scheme of things. Especially as it related to the past few months. This could all be fixed. Simple embarrassment was something I was beyond these days. I would explain everything and all would be forgiven.
And then I could be alone again. The thought made me want to cry. My stomach gurgled its agreement.
“It looks like you are who you say you are,” Officer Hardy said as he reattached his radio to his belt.
I stared at his chins. Why were there two, suddenly? “It is really just a misunderstanding. I thought you were—”
“Are you planning on staying here very long, Miss Lively? Or is it Mrs.?”
“Miss. I am here for a while.” I lifted my shoulders. “I just arrived this afternoon. I don’t even drink, really, and I was only doing this ridiculous kind of—well, rebellion, actually . . .”
My voice trailed off. He had slowly lowered himself to one knee. His broad shoulders were at eye level and I resisted the temptation to reach out and touch them so the room would stop spinning.
“This is a nice, quiet kind of town, Miss Lively. We like to keep it that way. If you have a problem with alcohol or any other substance, AA meets every Friday night at a local church.”
I swallowed, feeling like a child. “You were banging on the window. It scared me to death. You could have knocked on the front door.”
“I did. But you didn’t hear me.”
Skinny Dipping Season Page 2
