The Last Thing She Ever Did

by Gregg Olsen

  She even managed to make it to the front door a time or two, but something kept her from knocking.

  Not today.

  Liz stood on the front porch, catching her breath from her run along the river. Running was the only way she could get away from Carole and Owen. Facing either of them had become more and more difficult. Carole, for what Liz had done to her child. Owen, for what she wanted to do to herself. As the days passed since Charlie vanished, she was spending more and more time alone. Seeing anyone, especially those two, only reflected back the terrible things she’d done.

  The Miller house had been so quiet for weeks now. Save for the basement light at night, it almost seemed that the venerable old house had been abandoned. Three copies of the Bend Bulletin sat yellowing on the porch.

  Liz scooped up the papers and pressed the bell.

  No answer.

  “Dr. Miller?” she called out, opening the screen door and knocking on the door.

  The same Delft blue it had been all those years ago.

  “Dr. Miller? Are you all right? It’s me, Liz.”

  Liz tried to twist the knob, but the door was locked. Still holding the newspapers, she went around the house and peered into the garage. The car was there.

  He has to be home.

  As she made her way around the side of the house, Liz noticed a long, low shape in firecracker colors—red, orange, yellow—pressed down among the nearly spent daisies and daylilies. It was the boat trailer from the day of the flash flood. The long blades of the lilies arched over the long-flattened wheels. Had it been here at the side of the house since it was dragged back by the tow truck while she, Dr. Miller, and her brother were in the hospital?

  Liz stepped through the overgrown garden and pressed her palm against the rusted metal of the trailer. Why had Dr. Miller kept that trailer after so many years? She’d have gotten rid of it right away. It had to remind him of the worst day of his life. The unkempt space was in sharp contrast to the rest of his yard, which up until lately had been garden-tour perfection. Here, she thought, was a space that he seldom visited.

  She went to the riverfront side of the house. All of the basement blinds were drawn tight. She pressed her ear close to the back door. She could hear a faint noise coming from inside, but with a plane passing overhead, she wasn’t sure if she was hearing a television or a neighbor’s radio playing. It was very muffled.

  Liz looked across the water. The Franklins’ place: big and imposing. Her house: small and weak. She remembered all of the good times she and her family had had there. The fire pit sending sparkles of light into the dark sky. The taste of a hot dog roasted to a crunchy blackness. She thought of the time she and Owen had made love on the hammock, only to freeze into silence as some inner-tubers floated by. Standing there was like flipping through a scrapbook and feeling the blast of memory with every page.

  Part of her knew that Charlie was the last page.

  She turned away and started uneasily for home. There was nothing there for her, but something here seemed wrong.

  Mrs. Chow, who had lived next door to the Millers for years, was unloading groceries.

  “Tina,” Liz asked, “have you seen Dr. Miller lately?”

  The short, round woman with a penchant for gauzy shifts and six-inch heels gave Liz a quick nod of recognition.

  “No,” she said, moving a heavy bag to her hip. “I haven’t seen him in a long time. A week? Maybe more? I’m not sure.”

  “I’m worried about him.”

  “I didn’t realize you were close,” the woman said. “He never mentions you.”

  Liz didn’t take the bait. Mrs. Chow could be a negative force, and Liz didn’t need that right now. She’d had plenty of that already.

  “Well, he’s such a fixture in his yard that I got kind of worried when I noticed that his lawn hadn’t been mowed. You know that he practically lives for cutting that grass.”

  Tina Chow shifted her gaze between the two houses and looked down at the lawn. “You aren’t kidding there. I admit, the same thing crossed my mind. First thing I thought was that he’d had a stroke or something, but then I saw the Safeway delivery truck the other day. So I know he’s eating. Not my place to get into someone’s business. Not yours, either.”

  Again, no bait taken.

  “Right,” Liz said. “I didn’t know that he was getting deliveries.”

  Mrs. Chow let out a sigh. Her bag was heavy, and the younger woman hadn’t offered to carry in the groceries. She ruminated on how thoughtless the younger generation had become.

  “Me neither,” she finally said, shutting the car door with a swing of her gauzy hip. “Just started a short time ago. I was going to ask him about it but I’ve been busy and he hasn’t been out messing around the yard. Sure hope he isn’t ill or anything. Those greedy relatives of his will turn the old place into a rental, and I’ll be stuck with frat parties for the rest of my life.”

  Liz thanked her and started walking to the street.

  “Hey, any news on the Franklin boy?” Mrs. Chow asked.

  Liz turned around. “No,” she said. “Still missing.”

  The woman with the groceries made a concerned face. “Poor kid. Poor parents. Seems like the world’s a decidedly uglier place these days.”

  Liz couldn’t argue with those sentiments. Nor could she deny her role in the way things were. She thought about her RAV4. She would not keep that car. She would not let it be a monument to an accident the way Dr. Miller had made the boat trailer.

  His car was in the garage. Had Dr. Miller become a shut-in? It was the kind of ending that Liz had imagined for herself once she was released from prison.

  She’d shut herself in, never able to face another human being.

  What happened at Diamond Lake had been an accident. What happened to Charlie had been one too. At least in the beginning. And yet the two events were very different. Only one of them was truly shameful.

  Although she’d covered four miles already, she started running once more. Back to the park, along the river. She ran as fast as she could. She could feel her heart work so hard that she was all but certain she would have a heart attack.

  That would be the easy way out.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  MISSING: TWENTY-NINE DAYS

  The next afternoon, Liz looked in on Carole, who was lying motionless in the Jarretts’ guest bedroom. Carole’s silvery-blond hair was a snarled mess. A glass of water and those same pills that she’d pilfered to ease her own pain sat on the nightstand. The framed photo of her little boy that she’d clutched in front of the media watched over her.

  “Carole?” Liz said, inching closer. “Are you feeling better?”

  Charlie’s mother stirred but didn’t turn her head to look up. “I’m all right,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Just sad. Just tired.”

  Liz perched next to her, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s. She put her hand on Carole’s and patted it gently. Carole stayed quiet.

  Liz sat there looking around the room, remembering all that had happened. All that she’d done. She could hear some dogs barking by the river. A car backfired as it passed by. The low light from the autumn sun cut through the slats of the blinds and made a pattern of narrow bars over the bedspread.

  Prison bars.

  Everything outside of the bedroom went on as it always had. The river ran past the house, and the day was as beautiful as any day could be.

  Inside Liz’s belly, the pain raged. She could feel another wave of nausea as her stomach threatened to purge itself once more. She had stopped eating because nothing stayed down. Her throat was raw.

  “I’m going to run an errand,” she said finally. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and that I wish I could trade places with Charlie.”

  Carole squeezed Liz’s hand. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

  Liz didn’t say anything more. She’d save her true confessions for the police station and the detective who had been hand
ling the case. She’d go back there and this time she’d tell the truth, because it was the right thing to do. She’d take it all on herself and see to it that Owen would survive this. She gave Carole’s hand one last squeeze, leaned over, and kissed the top of her head.

  “I love you,” Carole went on. “I couldn’t get through this without you. I’m hanging by a thread and you are the only one that is here for me.”

  The bile started moving up Liz’s throat.

  “I love you too,” she said, her voice a constricted whisper.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  MISSING: TWENTY-NINE DAYS

  Liz knew something wasn’t right with her old neighbor across the river. She crossed over the footbridge. A light, lacy layer of snow had fallen and begun to melt. Bend could be unpredictable like that. Indian summers that can extend to October, or a snowfall that sends a flurry of skiers to the rentals that crowd much of the riverfront.

  She stood at the Millers’ Wedgwood blue door and knocked. When there was no answer, she reached up to the top of the doorjamb. Old habits like that seldom change. Seth had shown her the hiding place one time when his parents were gone for the afternoon. But there was no key. A living room window was unlocked, and she lifted it open. She stuck her head inside the silent space. A trio of suitcases sat by the door, arranged from largest to smallest. Liz wondered if Dr. Miller had been preparing for a trip somewhere but never made it out the door. He’d vanished from his perch on the deck or the yard that he tended so carefully. So obsessively.

  Something’s happened to him.

  She called out for him.

  No answer.

  Something felt wrong.

  Liz worked her frame inside, landing on the hardwood floor. She was concerned, and the concern for something other than herself, other than her dire situation, made her feel better. Stronger.

  Something sweet permeated the air, and she followed the scent to the main bathroom of the master bedroom. What was that? It was pulling her into a dark, paneled space with a big tub and pedestal sink. A toilet commanded the far corner. Dr. Miller’s shaving kit was placed on the corner of the sink. A white bottle of cologne with a sailing ship beckoned to her. Liz removed the red top and breathed it in.

  Old Spice.

  Before she could exhale, Liz was a terrified girl back in the station wagon on the day Dr. Miller drove them to Diamond Lake. The horse coming at her; its hooves shattering the windshield. The terrifying sound of the debris swiping at the car. All of it came at her. She was in the hospital. The angry and concerned faces of her parents. The lady police officer pressing her for a reason to blame Dr. Miller for what happened to Seth.

  Liz put her hands on the sink to keep from falling.

  She hadn’t smelled alcohol like her mother’s spiced wine.

  Liz had smelled Old Spice.

  Reeling, she left the bathroom and went to the kitchen. Everything was put away. The counters were pristine. It was as if the house were ready for a real estate agent to come in with a prospective buyer. Immaculate. Homey. There was even a full glass coffeepot. From the window over the sink, she could see her house and the Franklins’.

  Old Spice.

  Not booze.

  He hadn’t been drinking at all.

  Tears came, but they were silent ones. The kind that fall without a person really noticing.

  She breathed in and tried to pull herself together.

  Where was Dr. Miller?

  A million-dollar home that held traces of the family that had lived there, but nothing really personal. No pictures. A pair of mallard decoys sat on a small table under the old, yellow wall phone. She touched the coffeepot. It was cold.

  As she moved from the kitchen, she could hear the sound of the TV playing in the basement. It had been a long time since she was down there. She stopped at the top of the stairs.

  “Dr. Miller, are you down there?” Her voice was weak.

  She heard some movement. The TV went silent, followed by the sound of a door closing.

  “It’s Liz Jarrett, Dr. Miller. I’m coming down. Are you all right?”

  It was dark, and when she flipped on the light, she was blasted by a huge number of family photos. The stairwell wall was covered with them. It took her a minute to realize that she was looking at nothing but images of the Millers. It took her breath away. The photos seemed to show every moment of their lives on the river. Stunned, she stepped out of the room and looked around her.

  Whoever had put them there—could it have been Dr. Miller?—had spent hours and hours doing so. Seeing it all brought tears to her eyes. It was a very sad labor of love. The family chronicled in that massive array was gone.

  She ran her fingers over the images. The photographs were stapled to the paneling, forming a nearly seamless collage. One photo stood out from the others because it was attached with brass thumbtacks and was crooked, as if it had been hastily added. It was a picture of Seth and his father standing in front of the boat. Father and son stood grinning as Dr. Miller playfully mussed his boy’s hair.

  She couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to have been taken the morning of the accident. Seth was wearing his Have a Nice Day T-shirt with the smiley face. The image of that shirt had been burned in her memory. It was the last thing she saw when Seth let her out of the vehicle ahead of him.

  Saving her life.

  Sealing his fate.

  Suddenly, Liz wanted to get out of there. Just as she reached the bottom step, Dr. Miller appeared. He wore his customary khakis, Hawaiian shirt, and flip-flops. His white hair was uncombed and his eyes looked sleepy, as though he’d just awakened from a nap. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her, standing very still with his hands behind his back.

  “What are you doing in my house?” he finally asked.

  Liz didn’t move. She was an intruder. A concerned one, but nonetheless an uninvited guest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No one has seen you in a while. I thought something might have happened to you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You can see that I’m fine,” he said.

  “Right.” She looked past him. The TV cast light on the side of the basement that was windowless. A rumpled crocheted afghan with zigzag multicolor stripes lay on the sofa.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Liz said. “I was worried.”

  “That’s almost funny, you caring about anyone,” he said. “You of all people.”

  She studied his face. What was he getting at?

  “Do you need something?” she asked.

  “I need you to leave,” he said. “I need you to get out of my sight. You make me sick. You and your revolting husband and those miserable neighbors, the Franklins. . . . You all make me want to puke. Now, get the hell out of my house.”

  “Sorry. I was just trying to help.”

  “You can help by going right now.”

  “Fine,” she said, turning to make her way back up the basement stairs. Just as she took the first step, she heard a soft cry coming from behind her. She spun around. “What was that?”

  Dr. Miller pushed her away. “I said get the hell out of my house! Do you want me to throw you out? Because I will. Just try me. I will do it and be glad to.”

  The cry again.

  Liz cocked her head. The cry was coming from behind the door that sealed off the room where Seth and his siblings had kept their kayaks and bikes in the winter.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  The old man blocked her from coming into the basement.

  “Get out,” he said. “The sight of you—all of you—sickens me. But especially you, Lizzie. Every time I see you, I’m reminded of that day.”

  Liz moved down one step, defying him. They were now eye to eye.

  This was a conversation that she’d imagined they would have had after the flash flood.

  “It should have been you,” he said. “I’ve held that in a long time. I just wanted to say it to you and say it to everyone in this godforsaken town
. Seth should be here. Not you.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know. He saved me. Seth saved me. He shouldn’t have and I wish that he hadn’t, because he was good and I’m not good.”

  “You are despicable,” Dr. Miller said. “You and your husband. What you did. I know.”

  Liz felt the air leave the room. She looked at the old man’s face. His eyes were penetrating, cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His eyes stayed on hers. “I saw everything that night,” he finally said. “I saw what you did.”

  Liz knew what he was getting at, but, even so, the look on her face was one of disbelief, questioning.

  “The boy,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I followed you,” he said. “You treated that boy like he was trash. You people have no morals. No sense whatsoever of what’s right and wrong. You disgust me, Lizzie.”

  The cry once more.

  Liz could feel those shifting sands under her feet again. “What is that?”

  She didn’t want to use the word who because she already knew.

  He didn’t say a word.

  “What are you doing down here, Dr. Miller? What kind of craziness is this?”

  “Really?” he asked. “You’re going to say something like that to me? After what you did? You know what I did. You know who I have. Who I saved.”

  She did. The room shrank and the walls closed in. Liz could hardly breathe.

  The old man was speaking. Liz watched his lips move, nearly in slow motion, but could not begin to follow what he was saying.

  It just couldn’t be true.

  “No,” she said, sucking in a gulp of air.

  Suddenly, Dan Miller brandished a scalpel that he’d held behind his back. It shimmered in the light from the television set.

  “You should have been the one to die, you stupid, worthless girl.”

  “It can’t be Charlie,” she said, her eyes now riveted on the knife.