Smalls shrugged. “What’s the letter say?”
Deanna blew out a breath. “Read it. I don’t mind.”
Smalls opened the flap on the envelope and pulled out the letter. He read it out loud.
Deanna,
I don’t want you home for the holidays.
It’s better you stay at bay.
I have important things to do and you’ll be in the way.
Be good now, girl, and do as I say.
Did you notice how I rhymed the lines? I’m clever when I play.
Melody
Smalls looked up at Deanna. “Same letter?”
“Yes,” Deanna whispered.
Smalls nodded. “Your mother sounds like a real sweetheart.”
Deanna sighed. “Yeah.”
Smalls laid the letter down on the butcher’s paper. Then he reached over and touched Deanna’s forearm. “My condolences,” he said softly. He shot a glance at Blatch, then back at Deanna. “Listen. The guy I hired to do the handwriting analysis won’t be here for half an hour. Why don’t you two kids take the rest of the afternoon off? I can handle this one on my own.”
“You sure?” Deanna asked.
“Yeah.” He turned to Blatch. “Take her out for a stiff one. She looks like she could use it.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“LET’S GET OUT OF HERE before Smalls changes his mind,” Deanna said, grabbing her coat from the stand beside the reception desk.
Blatch nodded. “He was in a rare mood, I’ll give you that.”
The two left the office and headed for the elevator. As they stood waiting for it to arrive, Blatch said, “So, I guess I’ll see you tonight for the gallery opening. You want me to pick you up?”
“I don’t know. It depends on if my car starts.”
Blatch winced. Playing it safe, just like David said, he thought as they stepped inside the elevator. “If your car starts. That’s a new one.”
“Huh? Oh. It’s not that ...,” Deanna fumbled. “I took my rental back to the airport last night. I have a car in the garage, but I haven’t started it since June.”
“So I guess you walked here?”
“Yes.”
“You have plans for the rest of the afternoon?”
Deanna shrugged. “I thought maybe I’d start cleaning up the yard. I need to keep busy. Keep my mind off things right now. How long will it be before we know anything about the handwriting results?”
“I don’t know. I’m surprised Smalls—I take that back. I’m not surprised Smalls got someone to come in over the holiday weekend. But how much time they devote to doing his bidding over the next few days may be something even he can’t control.”
“Right.”
The elevator doors opened. They stepped into the lobby.
“Hey, can I give you a lift home?” Blatch asked.
“Well, I’d planned on taking a Lyft. I want to go to a garden center. Pick up some flowers and gardening gloves.” Deanna cringed. “God only knows what’s living in the ones hanging in the garage.”
Blatch smiled. “I can do that.”
Deanna crinkled her nose. “I could use a new shovel, too. The handle’s broken on mine. You sure you don’t mind?”
“THERE’S MY MOTHER’S house,” Blatch said as he drove Deanna home from the garden center.
“A craftsman bungalow. How quaint!”
Blatch winced. “Not as fancy as your mansion by the water, that’s for sure.”
Deanna smirked. “And not about to fall into said water, either.” She motioned with her hand. “Turn left on Walnut and let’s go up the back alley. That way I can unload the plants in the back yard.”
Blatch wound his way along the bumpy brick streets and down the narrow alley behind Deanna’s house.
“Stop here,” Deanna said as they came to a falling-down wooden fence and a two-story stucco-clad garage with peeling pink paint.
“The place looks totally different from the back,” Blatch said.
“I know, right? Instead of the neighborhood spook house, it’s the neighborhood spook garage.”
Blatch grinned. “The perfect place for Spidey Hawkins.”
Deanna climbed out of the car. “Maybe. But not so much for me. The realtor said if I cleaned the place up a bit, I could get a lot more money for it.”
“You’re selling it?”
“I think so. The thought of fixing up this place is overwhelming. I could hire the work done. But even if I did, what do I need with this big old house? I haven’t even been upstairs except to make sure the windows were locked.”
Blatch popped the trunk and took out a flat of colorful impatiens. “Where do you want these?”
Deanna kicked open the stuck back gate. “Over there, by the side of the garage.”
While Blatch set the flowers down, Deanna took the shovel and gloves from the trunk and closed the lid. “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it.”
“Sure. No worries. If you want, I can have a look at your car. Make sure it starts.”
Deanna shook her head softly. “That’s too much to ask, Marcus.”
“Really, it’s no problem.”
Deanna bit her lip, uncertain whether to take him up on his offer. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“Darn. Story of my life,” he quipped.
Deanna laughed. “Okay, then. You asked for it.” She opened the garage door.
Blatch’s mouth fell open. Not from the spider web, which he brushed away without a thought. But from Deanna’s car. He’d only ever seen one like it in a magazine. It was a mint-condition, cherry-red, 1961 Corvette C-1 Cabriolet Roadster, complete with whitewall tires to match its ragtop. “Good lord!” he exclaimed.
Deanna grimaced. “Should I call a mechanic?”
Blatch put a hand to his chest. “Maybe a paramedic. I think my heart just stopped.”
Deanna laughed as Blatch held a hand to his heart and stumbled backward. A sudden, loud bang nearby added sound effects to his bad acting.
Deanna peeked down the alley. A woman was standing with her back to them, next to one of the huge, black garbage receptacles used by the community. She was dwarfed by the oversized bin, the lid of which was as big around as a kiddie wading pool. It made quite the bang when it slammed down.
“Mrs. Havenall,” Deanna said. “Come here! I want you to meet Marcus Blatch.”
Mrs. Havenall turned around, saw Deanna and grinned. She walked over, her hand extended, ready to shake. “Nice to meet you, Marcus Blatch. How do you two know each other?”
“We’re dating,” Deanna blurted before Blatch could speak. Caught in a tangle of semi-white lies, Deanna didn’t want to blow her cover. She hadn’t told Mrs. Havenall about her new job, and she hadn’t told Marcus she already had a job as a psychologist in New York. How else could she describe him? Boss or colleague was out of the question.
God, Deanna thought. This is getting more complicated by the minute. She shot Blatch a please play along, I’ll explain later look. “I mean, actually, we’re going on our first date tonight.” She smiled at Mrs. Havenall. “To Jodie’s gallery opening.”
“Oh! How exciting!” Mrs. Havenall looked them up and down, admiration gleaming in her eyes. “Don’t you two look good together!” She winked at Deanna. “Oh. Look at the time. I better go get ready.”
“You’re going to the opening?” Deanna asked, a bit surprised.
“Of course.” She shrugged. “I tease Jodie about being a fringy artist, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And Deanna? I really appreciate you supporting her tonight. You, too, Mr. Blatch.”
“Marcus,” Blatch said. “Call me Marcus.”
Mrs. Havenall grinned. “Marcus it is. See you there!” She scurried back toward her house.
Blatch turned to Deanna. “So we’re dating?”
Deanna cringed. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t want her digging into what’s going on with my mother. She doesn’t know about the letters—about
any of it.”
“No worries. I’ll keep it on the down-low.” Blatch nearly cringed at his own attempt to sound cool.
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“But I have to agree with her.”
“Mrs. Havenall? What do you mean?”
“What she said about us looking good together. I agree.”
At that moment, the look on Blatch’s charming face nearly convinced Deanna to come clean. She almost told him she was a psychologist. She almost told him about Joel Bernstein being her ex-patient. She almost told him about her mother being suspected of killing her father.
But she didn’t.
She wasn’t ready to spoil the light, hopeful feeling she enjoyed when she was near him. She knew once she spilled her secrets, it would be gone for good. Once Blatch found out she’s been lying to him, he would hate her for it.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“WELL, AS THEY SAY, there’s no accounting for taste,” Blatch said to Deanna, and nodded at a life-size painting of the posterior of a dog. From the dog’s sphincter, a brown log emerged like clay from a Play-Doh factory.
Deanna shook her head. “You can say that again.”
A skinny, disheveled young woman in a painter’s smock came jogging up to them. “You like that one?” Her nose had brown paint on it. “I call it, Not in My Backyard. Get it?”
“Yes. Very symbolic,” Blatch said in a haughty tone designed to disguise his true sentiments. He spoke to Deanna in the same voice. “You said your friend Jodie had something on display here?”
“Jodie?” the dog artist said. “She’s down the hall. Second room to the left.”
“Thank you.” Blatch hooked Deanna by the arm and tugged her in the direction the woman had indicated. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Let’s get out of here before her dog takes another dump.”
Deanna giggled. “You’re incorrigible!” She should’ve been horrified at Blatch’s naughty comment. But she couldn’t muster the negative feeling around him. Blatch was funny. Light-hearted. An open book. On the other hand, she herself was a tomb of secrets. I shouldn’t have lied to him ....
“Dee!” Jodie squealed as they entered the hallway. “I’m so glad you made it!” She saw Marcus and grinned slyly. “So is this the guy you’ve been holding out on me about?”
“Only if that guy is Marcus Blatch,” he said, holding out his hand.
Jodie slapped it away and gave Blatch a hug, then stepped back and felt his biceps. “Not bad.” She wagged her eyebrows at Deanna. “I see I’m not the only one around here with secrets.”
Deanna felt her face flush with heat. Was Jodie’s comment only about Blatch? Or did she know more about her situation than she was letting on?
“Come on,” Jodie said, tugging Blatch by the arm. “Let me show you my stuff.”
Deanna followed them into a small room that must have been both Jodie’s studio and bedroom. Inside was a twin bed, a chest of drawers, a painter’s easel, and a small desk. On every inch of wall above and around the furniture, paintings of all sizes hung haphazardly on the walls. Each was a head-and-shoulders portrait, the subjects ranging in ethnicity and age. However, all shared one commonality. Each of their faces registered surprise, ranging from startled to aghast.
To Deanna, the quality of Jodie’s work was decent, if uninspired. “Nice,” she offered. “Are these all people you know?”
“Some are,” Jodie said. “But I think you’re missing the point.”
Deanna crinkled her nose. “The point?”
“Look closer.” Jodie pushed Deanna closer to one of the larger portraits. Deanna leaned in and squinted at the picture of a young girl, her eyes as wide as saucers.
Suddenly, she spotted it.
In the center of the girl’s startled blue eyes was a reflection.
Deanna gasped and stumbled back from the wall. Jodie laughed as Deanna’s eyes darted wildly from portrait to portrait.
“Most people don’t get it,” Jodie said in a voice that sounded sinister and strange as it mixed with the thrumming in Deanna’s ears.
Sweat broke out on Deanna’s upper lip. The room began to spin—a whirlwind of tortured faces swirling around her, pleading for Deanna to save them from the horror hidden within.
But she couldn’t. She didn’t know how.
The people in the pictures were just like her. Captives, doomed forever to be tormented by the same thing that haunted Deanna.
Every single eye in every single portrait had a white dot on its iris. And in that white dot lurked a round, black shape with eight thin, beige lines curling inward toward its center.
Inside every eye was a spider. A terrifying, life-sucking spider.
“WHAT’S WRONG? WAS IT something I said?” Blatch asked, jogging to keep up with Deanna as she fled down the hall, through the main house gallery, and onto the sidewalk.
“No,” Deanna panted. She bent forward and pinched her nose closed, trying to calm her panicked breathing. “I ... I just don’t like spiders. I had to ... get out ... I’m sorry.” She dared a glance up at Blatch’s face. “You must think I’m a freak.”
“No,” Blatch said, shaking his head. “Now, the lady who paints dog butts? Total freak.”
Deanna smiled despite her panic attack. “I’m sorry, but ... I don’t want to go back in there.”
“That makes two of us. How about we go get a drink somewhere?”
Deanna gasped for air. “To be honest, I just want to go home.”
Blatch winced. “Not a great portent for our ‘first date.’”
Deanna cringed. “Sorry. How about I make it up to you and invite you in for a drink?”
Blatch smiled. “That’ll work.”
“SO WHAT’S THE DEAL with you and spiders, anyway?” Blatch asked as he sipped a vodka and soda.
The weather being so lovely, the two had opted to sit along the seawall in front of Deanna’s house and watch the stars twinkle—first in the sky and then again in their reflections in the still, black water of the bayou.
“I blame my mother,” Deanna said.
Blatch laughed. “Don’t we all.”
Deanna chewed her lip. “She tortured me with them, you know. She was always hiding these stupid rubber spiders around the house to scare the crap out of me. She thought it was funny.”
Blatch shrugged. “So she was no Mother Teresa. I kind of gathered that.”
“No. She wasn’t. Even so, it’s hard to believe she could ....” Deanna’s words trailed off. She stared out at the warm glow coming from the windows of the houses on the opposite shore.
“Your mother. You said she was in that movie ... Tarantula Now.”
“Taran-cula,” Deanne corrected. “The vampire demon spider from hell.”
“Right. So I get why you hate spiders. But what about Jodie? What’s her story with those creepy spider paintings?”
“I dunno.” Deanna shrugged. “She hates them, too. What was it she said? Oh yeah. She told me she had a ‘dreadful fascination’ with them. But it’s a pretty common fear. Almost one in three people suffer from arachnophobia.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
Deanna laughed.
Blatch studied her. “How do you know these things?”
Deanna shrugged again, trying to seem casual. “When you have symptoms, you tend to look them up on WebMD.”
Deanna turned to face Blatch. In the moonlight, her blonde hair nearly glowed. She seemed so delicate. Angelic, even. He was suddenly overcome by the urge to kiss her. But he knew there was more to Deanna than the cards she was showing. She had secrets. Possibly dark ones.
Even so, he wanted to feel her lips on his. He leaned toward her. She leaned toward him. Hesitantly, they drew closer, until their lips almost touched.
A strange sound drew Blatch’s attention away. Nearby, tires were moving slowly across the pavement. He turned to face the road. A car was approaching slowly. Its headlights were off. “He’s back,” he whispered.
Deanna’s eyes grew wide. She started to get up, but Marcus stopped her and put a finger to his lips. They watched in silence as a dark sedan stopped right in front of them. The driver’s head was turned away from them, staring up at Deanna’s old mansion. The stranger lingered there for a moment, then turned back to face the road.
Deanna caught the shape of his profile, and suddenly felt as if she’d been thrown headlong into icy water.
“Stay here,” Blatch whispered. He set his drink down and slowly swung his legs away from the seawall. He crouched down and crab-stepped off the sidewalk. Cautiously, he took another step toward the window of the dark sedan.
Suddenly, the driver’s head turned. He spotted Blatch. His face twisted in anger. Tires squealed and dust flew as the driver punched the gas and peeled out.
“Shit!” Blatch scrambled into the middle of the road, but this time he didn’t chase after the vehicle. Instead, he made sure he got the plate numbers. He set them to memory, then he went back and helped Deanna up from the seawall.
“I got the tag,” he said. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make a call. We’ll find out who this bastard is, I promise you.”
“No need,” Deanna said. “It’s Joel Bernstein.”
Chapter Sixty
NOT AGAIN!
Dammit all to hell!
This Blatch guy ... what a fucking idiot!
He’s fucking everything up!
Chapter Sixty-One
“SO THIS GUY BERNSTEIN’S your ex-husband?” Blatch said as he scribbled down the plate number on a scrap of paper he found on Deanna’s kitchen counter.
“No,” Deanna confessed. She struggled to hold her hands steady as she fixed another round of drinks. Her nerves were shot—not just from their encounter with Bernstein, but from worry about how Blatch was going to take the news she was about to deliver. But she couldn’t pretend anymore. Bernstein had destroyed that option. She was going to have to confess to Blatch that she’d openly deceived him.
Deanna closed her eyes and set her resolve, then looked Marcus in the eye. “He’s not my ex-husband. He’s my ex-patient. I’m a psychologist, Marcus. I have a practice in New York.”
What She Forgot Page 20
