by Tyson, Wendy
Jason said, “Amy, where are you living?”
Amy nodded toward the motel room. “For now.”
“Come and stay with us. Bring the baby.”
Allison looked at him, surprised and grateful. She nodded. “Yes, come with us. We have plenty of room.” We…she and Jason weren’t quite a “we.” Still, it felt right.
Amy shook her head vehemently. “Sorry.”
“Then why did you call?”
“You know why.”
“Money.”
“Don’t sound so damn judgmental, Allison.”
Allison looked at Amy. Maybe despite the child, nothing had changed. Same old Amy, thinking only of herself. “What do you need the money for?”
“Does it matter?”
“You asked Mom and Dad for money. They have nothing. Nothing.”
“I have nothing, Allison. They have a roof. They have food.” Amy laughed and Allison saw a faint bruise along her jawline, a pink scar above her upper lip. “They have you.”
Allison’s mouth tightened into a hard line. If it wasn’t for the little girl in room one-twenty-three, she would have headed for the car. But she had a niece. The news still stunned her, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away.
“How much do you need?”
“Ten thousand.” Amy’s chin jutted up. “Or more, if you have it.”
“For what?” Jason asked.
Amy’s head snapped in his direction. “Who is this, Allison? No ring, so I know he ain’t your husband.”
Allison felt Jason stiffen beside her. “Let me think about it,” she said.
Amy’s eyes widened. “You don’t get it. I need it. Right away.”
“Why?”
Amy looked down at her feet, bare except for black socks. “Give it to me and I’ll go away.”
Allison sighed. She looked around at the motel. The two men and the hooker were gone now, but the sense of hopelessness lingered. “What if I don’t want you to go away?”
Amy scoffed. “You gotta be kidding.”
“There’s Grace. I’ve never even met her.”
“And you never will.” Amy’s expression softened at the look of pain on Allison’s face. “I’m sorry, Allison. I can’t stay in one place long, you know that.”
“All the more reason—”
But Amy shook her head again.
“Money, and I go away. No trouble.”
“And otherwise?”
Amy pulled her shoulders back in a familiar gesture of defiance. “I’ll go directly to Mom and Dad. They’ll give it to me.”
So that was the choice. Money or heartbreak for her parents.
Allison stepped back off the small stoop. Finding her voice, she said, “I’ll have a decision tomorrow.”
But her sister wasn’t listening. From somewhere in the depths of her coat, her cell phone was ringing. That panicked look back again, she opened the door to her motel room. “What now?” Allison heard her say into the phone before the door closed behind her.
They were silent in the car for what felt like a millennium. Jason turned the radio on to WXPN and waited until he was back on the Pennsylvania Turnpike before saying anything.
“I’m so sorry,” were his first words. “That must have been very painful.”
But Allison couldn’t respond through the tears. They choked her speech and blinded her sight. Jason reached over, found her hand, and held it.
By the next day, reason had returned. In the morning, Allison facilitated two client groups, one called “Returning to the Workforce,” for clients who were looking to refresh their images and their careers after a long hiatus, and her recently divorced group. She forced herself to focus on her clients’ issues and goals rather than her own problems, and that helped. By noon she knew what she needed to do.
“Your sister has a history of lying,” Jason had said the night before. “We don’t even know if Grace really exists, or if she’s a handy tale to guilt you into handing over the cash.”
As usual, he was right.
Allison dialed Amy’s mobile number, the one Raymond had given her the day before. When no one picked up, she left a quick, cryptic message. As predicted, her phone rang thirty seconds later. It was Amy.
“Will you do it?”
“On three conditions,” Allison said. “One, you tell me the truth about why you need it. Two, you never—and I mean never—ask Mom and Dad for money. Mom’s sick, Amy. Very sick. And Dad’s not all there.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. What’s the third?”
“I want to meet my niece.”
“No.”
“Then no money.”
“Shit, I’ll just go to Mom and Dad.”
Allison tightened her grasp on the phone. “You’re not listening. They’re broke. I control the little money they have left. And Faye has nothing, either. Plus, Mom’s dying. Amy, doesn’t that matter at all to you?”
Amy was silent. “Broke?”
Some things never change, Allison thought. “Yes, broke.”
Amy hissed a series of curses under her breath. “Meet me at four at the McDonald’s right near my hotel room. Don’t be late. And don’t tell my daughter who you are.”
“You don’t get to set the conditions.”
“Allison—”
“I want to see a birth certificate. And you need to tell Grace the truth about who I am.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I hate all of you. Fine, fine. Four, Allison. And don’t bring your boyfriend. Those eyes make me nervous.”
FIVE
By four o’clock Tuesday, the sun sat low on the horizon. Allison had spent the afternoon trying hard not to think about the pictures of her and Scott that sat locked up in the file cabinet in her office. Instead, she used every break to research her sister: social media, paid sites, even criminal databases. From what she could tell, Amy had very little online presence and no record. That, she supposed, was a good thing. But the fact that she knew almost nothing about her sister made her heart and head ache. At three, she downed two migraine tablets and headed back to Norristown, avoiding Vaughn’s questioning eyes as she walked out the door.
She arrived at McDonald’s early. She bought a cup of coffee and chose a booth near the kids’ play area from which she could see both entrances. At four-twelve, Amy showed up, a small child bouncing ahead of her, all perky smiles and deep dimples.
Amy saw her, but stopped by the counter and ordered ice cream. While the pair waited for their food, Allison watched them. She acknowledged the relief she felt because of the child’s health and vigor. Grace stood next to her mother, bouncing on her toes, an expectant smile aimed at the woman behind the counter. When the clerk handed her a cone, she said “thank you” in a clear voice.
“Come on,” Amy muttered.
The pair joined Allison at her table. Grace was bundled in a cheap purple coat and matching mittens. Her thick, dark hair had been coerced into two braids. Wayward strands stuck out at odd angles. The little girl looked at Allison with mild curiosity.
“You’re Mommy’s sister?”
“I am.” Allison smiled. “How are you, Grace? It’s nice to meet you.”
The little girl looked at her matter-of-factly. “I’m good now. I have ice cream.”
“I’m always better when I have ice cream, too.”
Amy fussed with Grace’s braids, smoothing the hair back from her daughter’s face. She pulled something out of a satchel by her side and slid it toward Allison. Allison flipped it over. A birth certificate: Mother—Amy Denise Chapulowski; Father—Darren Lowe.
“Satisfied?”
“You can’t stay where you are, Amy. Come stay with me. Just for a few days. I have room, and a dog. And…”
“And no.”
“Why not?”
>
Amy stood and eased off her coat. Underneath she wore a turquoise acrylic sweater and a pair of jeans. She’d washed her hair, but it still hung lifeless down to her shoulders. Her eyes were black pits. The scar Allison had noticed last night was a garish pink in the light of day, and the bruise along her jaw was a livid purple.
“Who is he?” Allison asked.
Instinctively, Amy’s hand shot to her face. She turned away. “Ten thousand, Allison. A new start. A new life for me and Grace.”
Allison caught her sister’s eye and pointed at the play area. The ice cream, now half eaten, lay on a napkin in front of Grace and the child was watching a group of kids play in the brightly-colored tubes with obvious interest.
Gently, Amy wiped Grace’s mouth with a clean napkin. “Want to go play?”
“Yes!”
“Go, then. Stay where I can see you.”
The two women watched as Grace wormed her way into the group with obvious ease. Amy said, “I did something right, huh?”
Allison smiled. “She’s precious.”
“She’s smart and brave and exasperating. And the reason I left him.”
“Darren?”
Amy shook her head. “Someone else. His name’s unimportant. He’s not a nice guy, and I figured it was only a matter of time before he went after Gracie, too. I asked her father for help, but he told me to get the hell out of his face. Just like that, too. ‘Get yourself and that bastard child out of my face.’” Amy ran a hand through her hair, scowling at the memory. “I had nowhere else to go.”
Allison studied her sister. Amy’s eyes darted from object to object, chewed-up nails tapped the tabletop. Allison wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that Amy had had the good sense to leave an abusive relationship before things turned worse. But her sister had always had a way of twisting the truth into something that suited her needs. Was she doing that now?
“What will you do with the money, Amy?”
“Get a car, some new clothes, find a decent apartment and a job. Me and Gracie, we’ll head west. A friend told me about some openings in Chicago. Chicago should be far enough from him.”
Allison turned her head and watched her niece. Grace was crawling through a plastic pipe on hands and knees, a look of intent focus on her features, features that were cute now but would be stunning when she got older.
“Do you want to leave Grace with me while you get settled?”
That look of alarm was back. One skinny hand shot out toward Allison, and then receded, finding a home in Amy’s lap. “No. She stays with me.”
Allison nodded. She had such mixed feelings: grief, rage and a tiny trickle of relief. Her sister was trouble, and Allison didn’t need more trouble. But when she looked again at Grace, she realized the sadness and rage were winning. What kind of a life could Amy possibly give her daughter? And how far would ten thousand dollars get them? If she could help, she should.
Allison reached into her purse and pulled out a fat envelope. She passed the wad of hundreds across the table. Amy grabbed it. The money disappeared into her satchel.
“Get settled. Find a job. Then let me know how things are going. If you need something for Grace…” Allison’s voice trailed off as she watched her niece playing. So much life in her eyes, so unlike her mother. Allison stood to go, choking back those damn tears again. “Well, just call me.”
Later that night, Allison lay in bed next to Jason, her arm wrapped around his naked chest. He was asleep, and she listened to the gentle sound of his breathing, relishing the feel of his warm skin against her breasts. Ever since the client disappearances of last year, when Francesca Benini and Tammy “Swallow” Edwards went missing on the same day, she and Jason had reached some kind of truce. Before then, he talked constantly about marriage and kids. Now he rarely mentioned either. Nevertheless, Allison saw the longing in his eyes when they were around friends’ babies or others spoke of marriage. Her ex-husband was getting sentimental as he aged. What was wrong with her?
Allison turned over, facing the window. She loved Jason. That much she was sure of. But what kind of mother would she make? She was endlessly busy, selfish, ambitious…and scared. As a kid, she’d never been anyone’s little girl. Her father was an abusive, cold man, and her mother had constantly been ill, first with debilitating migraines and later with Alzheimer’s. Allison had had to fend for herself from an early age. With a resentful older sister, Faye, and a delinquent younger sister, Allison had been the stereotypical middle child. And now the thought of raising a kid made her quake. What if she was unable to do any better than her parents had done?
Brutus let out a low, long snore from his spot at the foot of the bed. She reached down to pet him.
Around them, darkness pressed in, and with it, other thoughts. Allison considered the photos. Who had sent them? Scott, before he died—had he somehow scheduled their delivery? Someone else, someone with a vested interest in scaring her? Well, they had succeeded. Allison had no idea what to do. Ignore them, and risk that the same someone will send those pictures to Jason or make them public? Or try to figure out who sent them and why?
Neither option seemed practical—or palatable.
Allison turned over again, spooning Jason’s body against her own. She traced her fingers down the length of his back, feeling the welts left earlier by her nails. Their lovemaking that night had been feverish, rough. Afterwards, Jason had looked at her with surprise. For that matter, she’d surprised herself. Her desire, she knew, had been rooted in need. A need for escape, or a need for possession? She wasn’t sure.
Vaughn wanted to ask Jamie about Angela. But he couldn’t. It was nearly seven-thirty in the morning, and when he left Jamie in Angela’s hands, he’d seen the look that passed between them. It wasn’t a sisterly-brotherly look, that was for sure.
Vaughn skipped the gym. Instead, he headed west, toward Mia’s house. He’d called to let her know he was coming, and the sleepy-sultry sound of her voice had stirred something other than his conscience. He drove down the long, winding driveway toward her small bungalow, searching for Buddy, her dog. The acres of farmland on which her rustic stone home sat were quiet on this November morning. The clear sky and chill air felt good. Being out here in the country, he could almost feel his spirits lifting.
He let himself into Mia’s house. After greeting Buddy, who knew him well, he slipped through the kitchen and into Mia’s bedroom. She was there, in bed, reading a Donna Leon novel while propped against the pillows. Her long graying hair hung loose around her shoulders. She wore a men’s flannel shirt, unbuttoned nearly to the navel, and the rise of her small breasts under the cotton material made him hard.
She smiled at him. Vaughn slipped off his clothes and climbed in bed with her, giving in to the passion that had clouded his mind. Mia was quieter than normal, and the sex was comfortable: languid and slow. Sex between friends. Best friends. Mia was older by twenty years, and had long made it clear that she wanted nothing from him but companionship and release.
Had he fallen in love somewhere along the way?
Had she?
He curled around her in the bed, taking in the minty smell of her hair and the honeysuckle tones of her skin. He wanted to stay there all day, but he couldn’t. Work waited.
He toyed with telling Mia about Jamie, about his concerns related to Angela. He knew what she’d say, though: don’t worry about him. Let him have his own life. You can’t protect him from everything.
He’d been doing just that for so many years. How to let go?
Allison awoke with a start. She felt groggy and slightly nauseous. A migraine was digging its talons into her neck. What time had she finally fallen asleep? Three a.m.? Later? The bed was empty except for Brutus, who was staring at her expectantly from three inches away. When she yawned, he rewarded her with a slobbery kiss.
“Oh, Brutus,” she murmured, wip
ing her mouth, and patted his head. She rolled out of bed before he could bestow more affection.
In her office, she opened the day’s calendar. An eleven o’clock session with a state representative, a noon session with a local executive and a two o’clock seminar for sales representatives at Munroe Pharmaceutical Industries.
Allison showered and got dressed. The day outside was clear but cold, and she opted for an ivory-colored wool crepe pantsuit with matching Ferrigamo heels. An ivory, ice blue and cocoa scarf completed the outfit. Dressed and ready, she stared in the vanity mirror, tracing the faint lines emanating from the corners of her eyes and her mouth. She’d be thirty-four this coming spring. Thinking of Grace, of Jason, she wondered how much longer she could wait to decide the next steps in her life.
She heard her mobile phone buzzing from the next room. Quickly, she grabbed her make-up case and headed into her bedroom. She clicked the phone without checking the ID. She heard nothing at first, then the faint sounds of breathing.
“Who is this?”
More breathing, then silence. She heard trucks in the background followed by a loud bang that could have been a car backfiring—or a distant gunshot. She pulled the phone away from her face. Clearly, this call was meant to scare her. But she felt more enraged than afraid.
“Answer me, damn it. Who is this?”
Whoever it was hung up. Allison looked at the caller ID. As she suspected, an unknown number. Damn, she thought. Related to the picture? Or somehow connected to Amy?
She was betting on the former.
She toyed with calling the police. What would she say? Someone prank called me—and oh, by the way, a former boyfriend was recently murdered and here are some pictures of the two of us someone sent me; these things may be connected. No, she’d keep this call to herself. For now.
Allison grabbed her purse and headed downstairs. She’d feed and walk Brutus and then go to work. She had clients to attend to, and she wasn’t about to let this get in the way of her career. Plus, there she could do some more research on Scott Fairweather. She was beginning to think Leah was right; his death was not a drug deal gone wrong.
