by Rachel Caine
So I do. I leave the office. I shut the door behind me. I leave him to suffer in the hell that Melvin has created in that journal, because I can’t follow.
But I am going to find the asshole who sent this to him. Richmond, Virginia, might seem like a big place to hide, but not when I’m done. I will find out who Melvin trusted to deliver his bitter gifts.
And I will stop it.
I put on a too-bright smile for Connor, and together we finish up the rice, dress the salad with the handmade sweet Asian vinaigrette, put plates on the table, get drinks. I pour wine for me and Sam, and Connor gets water, as he usually does. Lanny hasn’t come out of her room. I go and knock; she’s out in a few more minutes, and an almost perfect replica of her usual self.
Almost.
She picks water as her beverage, and as we sit down, she says, “Where’s Sam?”
“He’s coming,” I tell her. I hope that’s true. I dish out the rice and the thickly sauced chicken; it smells amazing, but I have no appetite. My stomach is in knots. I keep staring at the hallway as I fill up Sam’s plate. We wait for another minute or two. The kids are looking longingly at their food, fidgeting. “You guys go ahead. I’ll get him.”
They dig in before I’m up from the table. I walk down the hall to the closed office door.
I rest my fingers on the knob for a long few seconds before I turn it and look in.
Sam’s sitting with his back to me. The journal is lying on my desk, closed now. He says, in an unnaturally flat voice, “I’ll be there in a minute, Gwen.”
No point in asking if he’s okay. I just close the door and go back to the table, and when Connor asks me where Sam is, I smile a little and say he’s on a call. The kids talk about what they want to do this weekend. Connor’s up for another trip to the town library, which he loves; Lanny wants to see a movie, and there’s some kind of house party across the lake that they’re definitely not going to attend. I don’t want to scare them, to crush this fragile normality they’ve achieved. But I don’t know what else I can do if they’re to stay safe. It feels like we’re standing in a small, warm spotlight, but the darkness is closing in all around us to swallow us up.
We should run. Get away now. Run fast. Those instincts have served me well for years, but now . . . now they feel out of tune. We could run. Move. Change our names, again. But is it going to change anything for long? People will find us. They always have. They always will. And ripping away friends and normality from the kids might be the wrong move, again.
Sam comes out of the office and takes his seat at the table. I meet his eyes, and I see darkness. I don’t know what Melvin wrote, only that it was directed very specifically at him. I don’t know if I really want to know, or if he’ll even tell me. But the shadow passes, and he smiles at the kids, jokes about weekend plans, and eats his food.
I do, too, even though every bite tastes like tears and ashes.
We’re all trying so hard.
And I realize, as if I’m standing outside of the spotlight, looking in . . . that it can’t last.
6
SAM
They’re always going to come between the two of us. The ghosts. I don’t want to admit that, but right now everything feels raw and wounded inside me, and I’m angry. Melvin’s reaching out from the grave to drag me over knives again. And Miranda. Miranda’s out there, circling like a vulture. I know she’s coming for us.
For Gwen.
I flinch from thinking about Melvin and what I read in Callie’s notebook. Miranda’s not a welcome thought, but at least she’s safer. I never was Miranda’s lover. In some ways that’s worse. She’s a toxic, bottomless well of hate, but hate is emotionally seductive, and it brought the worst parts of both of us out in the open when we were together.
I never, ever want Gwen to know about the details of what I did, especially to her, during that time of my life. She knows enough without having to face the cold facts.
We finish dinner, do the dishes, pretend everything is fine for the sake of the kids until they’re both on the couch, a movie is playing, and the two of us can step outside onto the porch.
She turns and puts her arms around me.
“I’ll get started on the backtrace of the address in the morning,” she tells me. “I should have an answer in a few hours. Maybe even a name.”
I don’t say anything. Taking out my anger on some random guy Melvin hired to mail stuff seems . . . useless. But I know we need to find this out and stop whatever else is in the queue from reaching us. Once we have a name, an address, we can get the FBI into it. Maybe. But it feels like an empty crusade. He’s already won.
I can sense the lingering fear and worry in Gwen, and I bury my nose in her hair and breathe in the scent of her. It cools something inside me and warms me at the same time. Steadies me. It scares me a little, this reaction. I’ve known a lot of strong, capable women, but Gwen is a unique blend of need and independence. She can and will fight like a tiger for those she loves. We have that bedrock faith in common.
We stand on the porch, wrapped around each other, content to be silent for a while. Finally, I say, “I know you’re going to ask, but . . . I don’t want to talk about it. Not about the diary.”
“Okay,” she says. She understands that, I know. “But are you okay?”
I pull back and look at her. Fit my hands around her face and kiss her gently. “Not remotely okay. But that’s why I need the time.”
She nods, and leans her forehead forward to rest against mine. “I wish I could kill him all over again,” she says. “And then sometimes I wish . . . I wish I hadn’t killed him at all. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely.” Killing someone isn’t like in the movies, something you shrug off with a quip and a drink. It eats at you, even when the person you kill unquestionably has to die. And there’s no way that her feelings about Melvin aren’t, at the very deepest level, still complicated.
Like mine about Miranda.
Jesus, I feel the ghosts crowding even closer, ready to tear the two of us apart.
Gwen pulls free and takes my hand. She leads me over to the two chairs on the porch, and we sit. There’s a corked half bottle of wine and two glasses; I pour for us. She sighs and takes a sip, gaze fixed on the dark lake rippling like black silk in the moonlight.
The porch lights are still off. By silent agreement we leave them that way.
“I’ve been thinking about the woman who called. Marlene. From Wolfhunter.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I’m wondering if I should go up there and talk to her.”
“No.”
“Sam—”
“No. Not now. Things are too dangerous, and she didn’t tell you why, did she? I’m not comfortable with you going off out of town, away from everything you know. You’ve got—” I almost say, You’ve got your kids to protect, but I stop myself because I realize that I’ve almost unconsciously taken a step back if I say it. As if they aren’t my kids now, too, to love and protect. You asshole, I tell myself. I can’t let Melvin drive that wedge. Or Miranda. Or my own deep-buried, visceral rage. So try to save it. “You’ve got too much at stake. If she was more specific about what she needed, you could try to send her some help. But if she wasn’t willing to do that . . . you have to think about yourself first.”
She takes a long drink, and finally shifts her gaze back to me. I don’t like what I see there. It’s as dark and quiet as the lake. “This is a change. You’re more paranoid tonight than I am.”
“Yeah.” I drain my wine in two long gulps, barely even tasting it, and pour another glass. “Assholes from beyond the grave will do that to you.” And Miranda. Jesus, I need to tell her about Miranda. I really do. “And you’re still not bulletproof.”
“Damn bullet resistant, though.”
“If you intend on doing something that stupid, I can’t let you do it alone.”
“Because if you did, you wouldn’t feel manly enough?”
I try to lighten it up. “Woman,
I spend my days hammering nails and building strong walls. I’m plenty manly enough.” She laughs, which was what I intended. It breaks her focus. I let my tone turn serious again. “Maybe we should think about getting out of here for a while. Just . . . somewhere. If we’re gone, Miranda and her circus will move on.”
“What about—”
“The job?” I shrug. “Construction’s a one-day-at-a-time kind of business. I can call out anytime I need to.”
“But that doesn’t mean they’ll hire you back.”
“Honey? I’m one of the best they’ve got. They’ll hire me back.” I sit back and drink my wine for a moment before I say, “I’m thinking of making a change, eventually, though.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know.” That’s almost a lie. Almost. I need to tell her the truth. Tell her about the job offer, the restless need I feel when I think about flying again. Stillhouse Lake is great because she’s here, because I love her and I love these kids.
But at the same time, it’s like my life is on pause.
I feel deeply fractured and restless. Between Miranda’s documentary and Melvin’s hammer blow to my brain, it’s stirred ugly shadows, messed with my head. And Gwen’s pulling away, defensively; I’ve felt it happening. She’s already strengthening the shields between us. So the easy answer is, Maybe we should let this breathe for a while, and I go and find my own way.
But it isn’t what I want. I love this woman. I want to be here. I want to be part of this family, not a separate, replaceable piece that comes and goes at will.
“I think I’m going to ask you to marry me,” I say. It comes out of nowhere, and I don’t even know why I’ve said it; my instant, panicked impulse is to try to claw it back, laugh it off as a joke, but then I go still because I meant it. I want this.
Gwen turns her head to stare at me. “What do you mean, you think?” she says.
“I am,” I say. “Asking.”
“Just like that.”
“We’re not the sunset-cliff-kneel-down-ring kind of people. Are we?”
I risk a glance at her then. She’s half covering her mouth with her wineglass. But she’s smiling. And she looks at me, and our gazes meet and hold fast. She takes in a breath and lets it out slowly. I feel a flare of heat, and I’m so damn glad, because it burns away all my doubts, all the filthy residue of Melvin Royal’s writing, all the sadness and grief and fear that Miranda’s brought back into my life.
“Why?” she asks. “Why ask now?”
God, she’s smart. And hits without mercy. “Because I don’t want to lose you,” I say, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said in my life. “Not to a bullet, not to some fanatic with a grudge, not to the two of us just . . . going separate ways. I want to be in your life, and I want you in mine. I want us to be together for as long as God allows.” I pause. “How’s that?”
Her face is flushed. Her eyes bright. “That’s pretty damn good,” she says, and drains her wine completely in two long gulps. She gets up, empty glass in hand, and turns to look at me. “Let’s go to bed.”
I hesitate for a second, then slam down the rest of my wine and stand up to face her.
I take her hand.
And we go together to the kitchen, set the glasses in the sink, and Gwen turns to tell the kids, “We’re going to bed, okay?”
They don’t even look at us. They just nod, pulled deep into whatever story is unfolding on the screen. I follow her down the hall and into the bedroom; before we get the door shut, I’m kissing her, and she’s against the wall, and we’re deep into it, into each other, and thank God my mind goes quiet and the vivid horror pauses.
She pulls free with a gasp. “Lock the door,” she says. Her voice is shaking.
I close the door and lock it, and when I turn around, she’s pulling off her shirt, and mine’s on the floor a second behind. I realize I smell like sweat from the long day, that I haven’t showered, and for a second, I hesitate. “I should shower,” I say.
Her smile is as bright as sunrise. “I like how you smell,” she says. “And we’re not sunset-cliff-kneel-down-ring people, remember?”
Damn, that goes deep, and ignites something wild.
The sex is untethered and breathless and silent—a mom’s habit, or maybe it’s because she’s so guarded even when she’s letting go. And it lasts, the intensity of it burning bright, until we finally collapse together, shaking and sweating. It’s astonishing, the fire we wake in each other. Precious and secret and completely right.
We’re still joined together when she whispers something in my ear.
I’m not ready for that answer, coming in the heat of this moment. Not in the least.
Because Gwen says no, she can’t marry me. Not yet.
We sleep next to each other, but there’s space in the middle, and a lot more between us than that. I rise early and hit the shower; I run the entire night through my head, from reading her ex-husband’s words to the exact moment that Gwen first melted and then shattered my heart, and I don’t know how to process any of it. I really don’t. We’re off the map.
Here lie goddamn monsters.
7
GWEN
The next day still dawns, however unlikely it seems. When I wake up, he’s already left the bed.
I hate myself, because I remember that exact moment—no, the second—that I broke Sam’s heart. I feel like a horrible bitch, even though I knew exactly what I was doing, and why.
Sam does nothing without a reason . . . but sometimes he doesn’t really recognize that. I do. The proposal was an impulsive, rash move, done partly because he meant it . . . and partly because it was a distraction from something he didn’t want to face. From Melvin. I felt it then. I feel it now. I can’t let him get himself into something as big, as important, as marriage without both of us being honest about why we’re doing it.
And yes, if I’m honest with myself . . . I may not be ready. It took months for me to let my guard down enough to acknowledge I love Sam, and months more before I dared open myself up to any kind of physical needs between the two of us. It terrified me. It still does on some level, but that’s the fundamental damage that Melvin did to me, and I’m working to correct it. But Sam doesn’t need to be my therapy, or my life preserver, or my rescuer.
I have to be all those things for myself if a marriage between us is ever going to work.
Sam’s making coffee when I come into the kitchen. I watch him anxiously for any sign that he’s angry, upset, disappointed . . . but I see nothing. He’s too guarded, and he’s too good at hiding what he’s really feeling. God, I really did that. I said no to him.
“Good morning,” he says. No indication he’s hurting. He pours me a cup. He’s already showered and dressed in heavy jeans and work boots and a moisture-wicking tee. “I’ve got the roofing job today. Should be back by dinner. You?”
This conversation is almost painfully superficial. I take the cup and sip. “Not much,” I say. “I might go to the range and do some target shooting later. It’s good to put in the practice, right? Given the circumstances?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “You’re going to run down that address in Virginia, right?”
“Yes.”
He leans in to kiss me lightly, and before he can pull away, I put my lips to his ear. It isn’t that there’s anyone else listening, it’s just that I need to whisper this.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Please come home again.” Because I’m actually afraid that when he walks out that door, he’ll keep walking.
He slowly pulls away, and our eyes meet. We say a lot in that moment. Volumes. And he says, “I’ll see you tonight.”
That’s as much comfort as there can be, I suppose. This time, when we kiss, it’s not quite as perfunctory. And I’m not quite as afraid to let go.
I spend the next two hours focusing on how Melvin’s managed to hit us again. The first step is easy; the address on the front of the envelope that held his sister’s journal
traces back to a Pack ’N Ship on the north side of Richmond. I call. No answer. I look up the store and get another phone number, different from the one that’s listed on their website. This time someone picks up. “Pack ’N Ship. How can I help you?” The second part of this sounds resigned to being asked a stupid question. World-weary.
“Hi, I’m looking to renew box seven ninety-one,” I say. If I ask who owns it, I’ll never get the answer. “I might need to update the credit card too.”
“Oh, okay,” he says. “Hold on.” Keys click. “Looks like it’s not supposed to be renewed until the end of the year.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather do it right now. I might forget. And I’ve moved, so . . .”
“Sure. Same card number?”
“Oh, and I got married, not sure if I updated the card yet for that,” I say. “What’s the name on the card you have?”
Sometimes people catch on, but I’m betting from his boredom and general resentment of the job that he’s not a due-diligence kind of guy. And I score, because he says, “Uh, it’s Dan O’Reilly.” I don’t recognize it.
“Oh, that’s my husband’s card, so it should be fine,” I say, and make sure I sound breathless and a little frazzled. “It’s just so hard keeping up with all the changes, you know? Um . . . and do you have our current address? We moved out of the apartment.”
“Twenty-two hundred Alfalfa Lane,” he says.
“Yes, that’s right. Thank you so much. Well, if the card’s correct, you can just charge it when you’re ready.”
“Uh-huh. I need to add you to the record, Mrs. O’Reilly. First name?”
“Frances,” I say. “Fran, for short.”
“Phone?”
“Same as his,” I say. I’m enjoying complicating the life of Mr. O’Reilly a little. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“No problem,” he says, and ends the call.
I take it back to the web and look up Dan O’Reilly’s details, cross-referenced with the address.
He’s a registered sex offender. I feel sorry for the fictional wife, Frances. When I pay the fee to get his records, I find that Dan likes rape, and likes his girls young enough so they can’t fight back. It’s nauseating. I find the link; his brother, Farrell, is currently incarcerated in the same prison Melvin was in. And on death row for abduction and murder.
