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Formybigsister,Mallory
Sleep,thoselittleslicesofdeath.HowIloathethem.—ANONYMOUSPROLOGUE
Todayisdaythreehundredandsixty-four.
Threehundredandsixty-fourdayssincemylastnightofsleep.That’salmostninethousandhours.Fivehundredandtwenty-fourthousandminutes.Thirty-onemillionseconds.
Or,ifyouwanttogointheoppositedirection,fifty-twoweeks.Twelvemonths.
Onewholeyearwithoutasinglenightofrest.
Oneyearofstumblingthroughlifeinasemiconsciousdreamstate.Oneyearofopeningmyeyestofindmyselfinanotherroom,anotherbuilding,withoutanyrecollectionofwhenIgotthereorhowIarrived.
Oneyearofsleepingpillsandeyedropsandchuggingcaffeinebythequart-full.Ofjitteryfingersanddroopingeyelids.Ofbecomingintimatelyfamiliarwiththenight.
OnewholeyearsincemyMasonwastakenfromme,andstill,I’mnoclosertothetruth.
CHAPTERONE
NOW
“Isabelle,you’reoninfive.”
Mypupilsaredrillingintoaspotinthecarpet.Aspotwithnosignificance,really,otherthanthefactthatmyeyesseemtolikeithere.Mysurroundingsgrowfuzzyasthespot—myspot—getssharper,clearer.Liketunnelvision.
“Isabelle.”
IwishIcouldalwayshavetunnelvision:theabilitytoselectivelyfocusononesinglethingatatime.Turneverythingelseintostatic.Whitenoise.
“Isabelle.”
Snapsnap.
There’sahandinfrontofmyfacenow,waving.Fingersclicking.Itmakesmeblink.
“EarthtoIsabelle.”
“Sorry,”Isay,shakingmyhead,asifthemotioncouldsomehowclearthefoglikewindshieldwipersswipingatrain.Iblinkafewmoretimesbeforetryingtofindthespotagain,butit’sgonenow.Iknowit’sgone.It’smeltedbackintothecarpet,intooblivion,thewayIwishIcould.“Sorry,yeah.Oninfive.”
IliftmyarmandtakeasipofmyStyrofoamcupofcoffee—strong,black,squeakywhenmychappedlipssticktotherim.Iusedtosavorthetasteofthatdailymorningcup.Ilivedforthesmellofitwaftingthroughmykitchen;thewarmthofamugpushedagainstmyfingers,coldandstifffromstandingonthebackporch,watchingthesuncomeupwithmorningdewbeadingonmyskin.
Butitwasn’tthecoffeeIneeded,Iknowthatnow.Itwastheroutine,thefamiliarity.Comfort-in-a-cup,likethosedehydratednoodlesyousplashfaucetwaterontobeforepoppingthemintothemicrowaveandcallingitameal.ButIdon’tcareaboutthatanymore:comfort,routine.ComfortisaluxuryIcannolongerafford,androutine…well.Ihaven’thadthatinalongtime,either.
NowIjustneedthecaffeine.Ineedtostayawake.
“Onintwo.”
Ilookupatthemanstandingbeforeme,clipboardrestingagainsthiship.Inod,downtherestofthecoffee,andsavorthebitterpinchinmyjaw.Ittasteslikeshit,butIdon’tcare.It’sdoingitsjob.Idigmyhandintomypurseandpulloutabottleofeyedrops—rednessrelief—andsquirtthreebeadsofliquidintoeacheyewithexpertprecision.Iguessthisismyroutinenow.ThenIstandup,runmyhandsoverthefrontofmypants,andslapmypalmsagainstmythighs,signalingthatI’mready.
“Ifyou’llfollowme.”
Iholdoutmyarm,gesturingforthemantoleadtheway.AndthenIfollow.Ifollowhimoutthedoorandthroughadimhallway,thefluorescentlightsbuzzinginmyearlikeanelectricchairhummingtolife.Ifollowhimthroughanotherdoor,thegentleroarofapplauseeruptingassoonasitopensandwestepinside.Iwalkpasthim,totheedgeofthestage,andstandbehindablackcurtain,theaudiencejustbarelyobscuredfromview.
Thisisabigone.ThebiggestI’vedone.
Ilookdownatmyhands,whereIusedtoholdnotecardswithtalkingpointsscribbledinpencil.Littlebulletedinstructionsremindingmewhattosay,whatnottosay.HowtoorderthestorylikeI’mfollowingarecipe,meticulousandcareful,sprinklingthedetailsinjustright.ButIdon’tneedthoseanymore.I’vedonethistoomanytimes.
Besides,there’snothingnewtosay.
“AndnowwearereadytobringoutthepersonIknowyou’reallheretosee.”
Iwatchthemanspeakingonstage,tenfeetaway,hisvoiceboomingovertheloudspeakers.It’severywhere,itseems—infrontofme,behindme.Insideme,somehow.Somewheredeepinmychest.Theaudiencecheersagain,andIclearmythroat,remindmyselfwhyI’mhere.
“LadiesandgentlemenofTrueCrimeCon,itismyhonortopresenttoyou,ourkeynotespeaker…IsabelleDrake!”
Istepintothelight,walkingwithpurposetowardthehostashesignalsmeonstage.Thecrowdcontinuestoyell,someofthemstanding,clapping,thebeadylittleeyesoftheiriPhonespointedinmydirection,takingmein,unblinking.Iturntowardtheaudience,squintingattheirsilhouettes.Myeyesadjustabit,andIwave,smilingweaklybeforecomingtoahaltinthecenter.
Thehosthandsmeamicrophone,andIgrabit,nodding.
“Thankyou,”Isay,myvoicesoundinglikeanecho.“Thankyouallforcomingoutthisweekend.Whatanincrediblebunchofspeakers.”
Thecrowderuptsagain,andItakethefreesecondstoscantheseaoffacesthewayIalwaysdo.It’swomen,mostly.It’salwayswomen.Olderwomeningroupsoffiveorten,relishingthisannualtradition—theabilitytobreakawayfromtheirlivesandtheirresponsibilitiesanddrownthemselvesinfantasy.Youngerwomen,twentysomethings,lookingskittishandalittleembarrassed,likethey’vejustbeencaughtlookingatporn.Buttherearemen,too.Husbandsandboyfriendswhoweredraggedalongagainsttheirwill;thekindwithwire-rimmedglassesandpeach-fuzzbeardsandelbowsthatprotrudeawkwardlyfromtheirarmslikeknobbytreebranches.Therearethelonersinthecorner,theoneswhoseeyeslingerjustlongenoughtomakeyouuncomfortable,andthepoliceofficersperusingtheaisles,stiflingyawns.
AndthenInoticetheclothing.
OnegirlwearsagraphicteethatsaysRedWineandTrueCrime,theTintheshapeofagun;anothersportsawhiteshirtsprayedwithspecksofred—it’ssupposedtomimicblood,Iassume.ThenIseeawomanwearingaT-shirtthatsaysBundy.Dahmer.Gacy.Berkowitz.Irememberwalkingpastitearlierinthegiftshop.Itwasclippedtightagainstamannequin,beingadvertisedinthesamewaytheyadvertiseoverpricedbandT-shirtsinthemerchandisetentsatconcerts,memorabiliaforrabidfans.
Ifeelthefamiliarswellofbileinmythroat,warmandsharp,andforcemyselftolookaway.
“AsI’msureyouallknow,mynameisIsabelleDrake,andmyson,Mason,waskidnappedoneyearago,”Isay.“Hiscaseisstillunsolved.”
Chairssqueak;throatsarecleared.Amouseywomaninthefrontrowisshakingherheadgently,tearsinhereyes.Sheislovingthisrightnow,Iknowsheis.It’slikeshe’swatchingherfavoritemovie,mindlesslysnackingonpopcornasherlipsmovegently,recitingeveryword.She’sheardmyspeechalready;sheknowswhathappened.Sheknows,butshestillcan’tgetenough.Noneofthemcan.ThemurderersontheT-shirtsarethevillains;theuniformedmeninback,theheroes.Masonisthevictim…andI’mnotreallysurewherethatleavesme.
Thelonesurvivor,maybe.Theonewithastorytotell.
CHAPTERTWO
Isettleintomyseat.Theaisleseat.Generally,Ipreferthewindow.Somethingtoleanupagainstandclosemyeyes.Nottosleep,exactly.Buttodriftawayforawhile.Microsleeping,iswhatmydoctorcallsit.We’veallseenitbefore,especiallyonairplanes:thetwitchingeyelids,thebobbinghead.Twototwentysecondsofunconsciousnessbeforeyournecksnapsbackupwithastonishingforcelikeacockingshotgun,readytogo.
Ilookattheseattomyright:empty.Ihopeitstaysopen.Takeoffisintwentyminutes;thegateisabouttoclose.Andwhenitdoes,Icanmoveover.Icanclosemyeyes.
Icantry,asI’vebeentryingforthelastyear,tofinallygetsomerest.
“Excuseme.”
Ijump,lookingupattheflightattendantbeforeme.She’stappingthebackofmyseat,disapprovalinhereyes.
“We’regoingtoneedyoutomakesureyourseatbackisintheuprightandlockedposition.”
Ilookbackdown,pushthelittlesilverbuttononmyarmrest,andfeelmybackbegintobendforwardatanacuteangle,mystomachfoldinginonitself.Theattendantbeginstowalkaway,pushingoverheadcompartmentsclosedasshegoes,whenIreachoutmyarmandstopher.
“CanIbotheryouforasodawater?”
“We’llbeginbeverageserviceassoonaswetakeoff.”
“Please,”Iadd,grabbingherarmharderasshestartstostepaway.“Ifyouwouldn’tmind.I’vebeentalkingallday.”
Itouchmythroatforemphasis,andshelooksdowntheaisleattheotherpassengerssquirminguncomfortably,adjustingtheirseatbelts.Diggingthroughbackpacksforheadphones.
“Fine,”shesays,herlipspinchedtight.“Justamoment.”
Ismile,nod,andeasebackintomyseatbeforelookingaroundtheplaneattheotherpassengersI’llbesharingcirculatedairwithforthenextfourhoursaswemakeourwayfromLosAngelestoAtlanta.It’sagameIplay,tryingtoimaginewhatthey’redoinghere.Whatlifecircumstancesbroughtthemtothisexactmoment,withthisexactgroupofstrangers.Iwonderwhatthey’vebeendoing,orwhattheyplantodo.
Aretheygoingsomewhere,oraretheymakingtheirwayhome?
Myeyeslandfirstonachildsittingalone,giantheadphonesswallowinghisears.Iimaginehe’saproductofdivorce,spendingoneweekendeverymonthgettingshuttledfromonesideofthecountrytotheotherlikecargo.IfeelmyselfstartingtoimaginehowMasonmighthavelookedatthatage—howhisgreeneyescouldhavemorphedevengreener,
Iswallowhardandforcemyselftoturnaway,twistingtotheleftandtakingintheothers.
Thereareoldermenonlaptopsandwomenwithbooks;teenagersoncellphonesslouchedlowintheirseats,ganglykneesknockingintotheseatbacksinfrontofthem.Someofthesepeoplearetravelingtoweddingsorfunerals;someareembarkingonbusinesstripsorclandestinegetawayspaidforincash.Andsomeofthesepeoplehavesecrets.Allofthemdo,really.Butsomeofthemhavetherealones,themessyones.Thedeep,dark,shadowyonesthatlurkjustbeneaththeskin,travelingthroughtheirveinsandspreadinglikeasickness.
Dividing,multiplying,thendividingagain.
Iwonderwhichonestheyare:theoneswiththekindsofsecretsthattoucheveryorganandrenderthemrotten.Thekindsofsecretsthatwilleatthemalivefromtheinsideout.
NobodyinherecouldpossiblyimaginewhatI’vejustspentmydaydoing:recountingthemostpainfulmomentofmylifefortheenjoymentofstrangers.Ihaveaspeechnow.AspeechthatIrecitewithabsolutedetachment,engineeredinjusttherightway.SoundbitesthatIknowwillreadwellwhenrippedfrommymouthandprintedinsidenewspapers,andmanufacturedmomentsofsilencewhenIwantapointtosinkin.WarmmemoriesofMasontobreakupaparticularlytensescenewhenI’msensingtheneedforsomecomedicrelief.JustasI’mgoingdeepintohisdisappearance—theopenwindowIhaddiscoveredinhisbedroomlettinginawarm,dampbreeze;thetinymobilesituatedabovehisbed,littlestuffeddinosaursdancinggentlyinthewind—Istop,swallow.ThenIrecitethestoryofhowMasonhadjuststartedtalking.HowhepronouncedT.rex“Tyrantosnorious”—andhow,everytimehepointedatthelittlecreaturesabovehisbed,myhusbandwouldbreakoutintoexaggeratedsnores,sendinghimintoafitofgigglesbeforedriftingoffhimself.Andthentheaudiencewouldallowthemselvestosmile,maybeevenlaugh.Therewouldbeavisiblereleaseintheirshoulders;theirbodieswouldsettleintotheirtoouncomfortable.Theydon’twanttoactuallylivethroughwhatI’velivedthrough,everyuglymoment.Theyjustwantataste.Theywantenoughfortheircuriositytobesatiated—butifitgetstoobitterortoosaltyortooreal,they’llsmacktheirlipsandleavedissatisfied.
Andwedon’twantthat.
Thetruthis,peopleloveviolence—fromadistance,thatis.Anyonewhodisagreesiseitherindenialorhidingsomething.
“Yoursodawater.”
Ilookupattheflightattendant’soutstretchedarm.She’sholdingasmallcupofclearliquid,littlebubblesrisingtothesurfaceandburstingwithasatisfyingfizz.
“Thankyou,”Isay,takingitfromherandplacingitinmylap.
“You’llneedtokeepyourtraytablestowed,”sheadds.“We’llbeintheairsoon.”
Ismile,takingasmallsiptoindicatethatIunderstand.Whenshewalksoff,Ileandown,diggingmyhandintomypurseuntilIfeelaminibottletuckedneatlyintothesidepocket.I’mattemptingtodiscreetlyunscrewthecapwhenIfeelapresencebesideme,hoveringclose.
“Thisisme.”
Mynecksnapsup,andI’mhalfexpectingtoseesomebodyIknow.There’safamiliarityinthevoiceaboveme,vague,likeacasualacquaintance,butwhenIlookupatthemanstandingintheaisle,IseeastrangerwithaTrueCrimeContotebagslungoveronearm,theotherpointingtotheseatbesideme.
Thewindowseat.
Heseestheminibottleinmyhandandgrins.“Iwon’ttell.”
“Thanks,”Isay,standinguptolethimpassthrough.
Itrynottoglowerattheprospectofbeingstucknexttoanattendeeonthefighthome—it’scomplicated,really,thewayIfeelaboutthefans.Ihatethem,butIneedthem.They’reanecessaryevil:theireyes,theirears.Theirundividedattention.Becausewhentherestoftheworldforgets,theyremember.Theystillreadeveryarticle,debatingtheirtheoriesonamateursleuthforumsasifmylifeisnothingmorethanafunpuzzletobesolved.TheystillcurlupontheircoucheswithaglassofMerlotintheevenings,gettinglostinthecomfortingdroneofDateline.Tryingtoexperienceitwithoutactuallyexperiencingit.Andthat’swhyeventslikeTrueCrimeConexist.Whypeoplespendhundredsofdollarsonairfareandhotelroomsandconferencetickets:forasafespacewheretheycanbaskinthebloodyglowofviolenceforjustafewdays,usinganotherperson’smurderasameansofentertainment.
Butwhattheydon’tunderstand,whattheycan’tunderstand,isthatoneday,theycouldwakeuptofindtheviolencecrawlingthroughtheirtelevisionscreens,latchingontotheirhouses,theirlives,likeaparasitesinkinginitsfangs.Wrigglingindeep,makingitselfcomfortable.Suckingthebloodfromtheirbodiesandcallingthemhome.
Peopleneverthinkit’llhappentothem
Themanglidespastmeandintohisseat,pushinghisbagbeneaththechairinfrontofhim.WhenIsettlebackin,IpickupwhereIleftoff:thegentlecrackofthecapbreaking,theglugofvodkaasitpoursintomydrink.Istiritwithmyfingerbeforetakingalongsip.
“Isawyourkeynote.”
Icanfeelmyseatmatelookingatme.Itrytoignorehim,closingmyeyesandleaningmyheadagainsttheheadrest.Waitingforthevodkatomakemyeyelidsjustheavyenoughtostayclosedforabit.
“I’msosorry,”headds.
“Thankyou,”Isay,eyesstillshut.EventhoughIcan’tactuallysleep,IcanactlikeI’msleeping.
“You’regood,though,”hecontinues.Icanfeelhisbreathonmycheek,smellthespearmintgumwedgedbetweenhismolars.“Attellingthestory,Imean.”
“It’snotastory,”Isay.“It’smylife.”
He’squietforawhile,andIthinkthatdidit.Iusuallytrynottomakepeopleuncomfortable—Itrytobegracious,playtheroleofthegrievingmother.Shakinghandsandnoddingmyhead,agratefulsmileplasteredacrossmyfacethatIimmediatelywipeawaylikelipstickthesecondIstepaway.ButrightnowI’mnotattheconference.It’sover,I’mdone.I’mgoinghome.Idon’twanttotalkaboutitanymore.
Iheartheintercomcometolifeaboveus,ascratchyecho.
“Flightattendants,preparedoorsfordepartureandcross-check.”
“I’mWaylon,”themansays,andIcanfeelhisarmthrustinmydirection.“WaylonSpencer.Ihaveapodcast—”
Iopenmyeyesandlookinhisdirection.Ishouldhaveknown.Thefamiliarvoice.ThefittedV-neckanddark-washskinnyjeans.Hedoesn’tlooklikethetypicalattendee,withhisglossyhairshavedintoaslopinggradientattheneck.He’snotintomurderforentertainment;he’sinitforbusiness.
I’mnotsurewhichisworse.
“Waylon,”Irepeat.Ilookdownathisoutstretchedhand,hisexpectantface.ThenIswivelmyneckaroundandshutmyeyesagain.“Idon’twanttocomeacrossasrude,Waylon,butI’mnotinterested.”
“It’sreallygainingsometraction,”hesays,pressingon.“Numberfiveintheappstore.”
“Goodforyou.”
“Weevensolvedacoldcase.”
Ican’ttellifit’sthesuddenmovementoftheplane—agentlelurchthatmakesmystomachflip,mylimbspushingdeepintotheseataswerattledowntherunway,thisgiantmetalboxwe’realllockedinsidemovingfasterandfaster,makingmyeardrumsswell—orifit’shiswordsthatmakemefeelsuddenlyuneasy.
Itakeadeepbreath,digmynailsintothearmrest.
“Flyingmakeyounervous?”
“Canyoustop?”Ispit,myheadsnappingbackinhisdirection.Iwatchashiseyebrowsraise,mysuddenmeannesstakinghimbysurprise.
“I’msorry,”hesays,lookingembarrassed.“It’sjust—Ithoughtyoumightbeinterested.Intellingthestory.Yourstory.Ontheshow.”
“Thankyou,”Isay,tryingtosoftenmytone.Webothtiltbackastheplanebeginstoascend,thefloorrattlingviolentlybeneathourfeet.“ButI’llpass.”
“Okay,”hesays,diggingintohispocketandpullingouthiswallet.Iwatchasheflipsopenthefadedleather,pullsabusinesscardout,andplacesitgentlyonmyleg.“Ifyouchangeyourmind.”
Iclosemyeyesagain,leavinghiscarduntouchedonmyknee.We’reintheairnow,rippingthroughcloudsbloatedwithwater,abeamofsunlightoccasionallyfindingitswaythroughthehalf-drawnshadeandcastingarayofbrightlightacrossmyeyes.
“IguessIjustthoughtthat’swhyyoudoit,”headdssoftly.Itrytoignorehim,butcuriositygetsthebestofme.Ican’t.
“Dowhat?”
“Youknow,yourtalks.Itcan’tbeeasy,relivingitoverandoveragain.Butyouhavetoifyouwanttokeepthecasealive.Ifyoueverwantittobesolved.”
Isqueezemyeyesharder,focusingonthelittlespiderveinsIcanseeinmyeyelids,glowingred.
“Butwithapodcast,youwouldn’thavetotalktoallthosepeople.Notdirectly,anyway.You’djusthavetotalktome.”
Iswallow,nodmyheadgentlytoindicatethatIhearbutthattheconversationisstillover.
“Anyway,justthinkitover,”headds,reclininghischair.
Icanheartherustlingofhisjeansashetriestogetcomfortable,andIknow,withinminutes,he’llbeabletodosoeasilywhatIhaven’tbeenabletodoinayear.Ipeekoneeyeopenandglanceinhisdirection.He’spushedwirelessheadphonesintohisears,thesteadythumpingofbassloudenoughformetohear.ThenIwatchhisbodytransformthesamewayitalwaysdoes,predictableyetstillsoforeigntome:Hisbreathbeginstogetdeeper,steadier.Hisfingersbegintotwitchinhislap,hismouthhangingopenlikeacreakycupboarddoor,asinglebeadofdroolquiveringinthecornerofhislip.Fiveminuteslater,agentlesnoreeruptsfromhisthroat,andIfeelapinchinmy
ThenIclosemyeyes,imagining,forafleetingmoment,whatitmustbelike.
CHAPTERTHREE
Ipushmykeyintothefrontdoor,twisting.
It’snearlytwointhemorning,andmytriphomefromtheairportisnothingmorethanablur,likethoselong-exposurephotographsthatfeaturebusycommuterswithtrailsofcolorfollowingthemaroundthetrainstation.AfterlandingatHartsfield-Jackson,IhadgrabbedWaylon’sbusinesscardandtuckeditintomypurse,pickingupmythingsand
Ihearmydogwhiningassoonasthekeybeginstoturn.Ialreadyknowwheretofindhim:sittingjustinsidethefrontdoor,tailwaggingfuriouslyagainstthehardwoodlikeafeatherduster.He’salwaysbeenmouthy,Roscoe,eversincehewasapuppy.Ienvyhisabilitytoholdontothethingsthatmakehimhim,unchanged.
Sometimes,whenIlookinthemirror,Idon’tevenrecognizemyselfanymore.Idon’tevenknowwhoIam.
“Hey,you,”Iwhisper,rubbinghisears.“Imissedyou.”
Roscoeemitsalowgroanfromsomewheredeepinhisthroat,hisnailspawingatmyleg.MyneighbortakescareofhimwhenI’mgone:anolderwomanwhopitiesme,Ithink—that,orshereallyneedsthetwentydollarsadayIleaveforheronthecountertop.Sheletshimoutside,fillshisbowl.Leavesmeticulousnotesabouthisbathroomscheduleandeatinghabits.Idon’tfeelbadaboutleavinghim,tobehonest,becauseshegiveshimmoreofaroutinethanIdo
Idropmypurseonthecounterandthumbthroughthemailsheleftinapile,mostlyjunkandbills,untilIfeelacatchinmythroat.Ipickupanenvelopeaddressedinfamiliarscript,myparents’addressintheleft-handcorner,andflipitover,stickingmythumbinthegapandrippingitopen.Ipulloutasmallcardwithflowersonthefront;whenIopenitup,acheckfluttersoutandfallstothefloor.
Idropthecardonthecounter,exhalingslowly.Ican’tbringmyselftotouchthecheck,toseehowmuchit’sfor.Notyet,anyway.
“Areyoureadyforawalk?”IaskRoscoeinstead.Hespinsinacircle,anundeniableyes,andIfeelmyselfsmile.That’sthebeautyofanimals—theyadapt.
EversinceI’vebecomenocturnal,Roscoehas,too.
IrememberlookingupatDr.Harris,ninemonthsago,duringourfirstappointment.Thefirstofmany.Icouldn’tseemyeyes,butIcouldfeelthem.Tight,stinging.Iknewtheywerebloodshot,thelittleveinsthatweresupposedtobeinvisiblebranchingoutacrossmyscleralikeawindshieldafterawreck,bloodiedandcracking.Brokenbeyondrepair.NomatterhowmanytimesIblinked,theynevergotbetter.Itwasalmostasifmyeyelidsweremadeofsandpaper,chippingawayatmypupilswitheachflipofthelid.
“Whenwasthelasttimeyougotafull,uninterruptednightofrest?”hehadasked.“Canyourecall?”
OfcourseIcould.OfcourseIcouldrecall.Iwouldberecallingthatdatefortherestofmylife,nomatterhowhardItriedtopushitoutofmymemory.NomatterhowhardItriedtowillitoutofexistence,howdesperatelyIwantedtopretendthatitwasjustanightmare.Aterrible,horriblenightmareIwouldbewakingupfromatanyminutenow.Anysecond.
“Sunday,Marchsixth.”
“That’salongtime,”hehadsaid,glancingdownattheclipboardonhisdesk.“Threemonths.”
Inodded.OnethingIwasstartingtonoticeaboutbeingawakeallthetimewasthewayinwhichseeminglylittlethingsgrewbiggerbytheday.Noisier,hardertoignore.Thetickingoftheclockinthecornerwasdeafening,likealongnailsteadilytappingagainstglass.Thedustintheairwasunusuallyvisible,littlespecksoflintfloatingslowlyacrossmyfieldofvisionlikesomeonehadtamperedwithmysettings,distortingeverythingintohigh-contrastslowmotion.IcouldsmelltheremnantsofDr.Harris’slunch,littleparticlesofcannedtunawaftingthroughhisofficeandintomynostrils,fishyandbrackish,makingmyesophagussqueeze.
“Didanythingextraordinaryhappenthatnight?”
Extraordinary.
UntilIhadwokenupthenextmorning,therehadn’tbeenanythingextraordinaryaboutit.Ithadbeenpainfullyordinary,infact.Irememberchangingintomyfavoritepairofpajamas,pushingmyhairbackwithaheadband,andscrubbingthemakeupfrommyskin.AndthenIhadputdownMason,ofcourse.Ihadreadhimastory,rockinghimtosleepthewayIalwaysdid,butforthelifeofme,Icouldn’trememberwhichstoryitwas.Irememberstandinginhisbedroom,dayslater,aftertheyellowpolicetapehadbeensnippedfromthedoorway,thesilenceofhisnurserysomehowmakingtheroomseemtoexpandtotripleitsactualsize.Irememberstandingthere,staringathisbookshelf—atGoodnightMoonandTheVeryHungryCaterpillarandWheretheWildThingsAre,desperatelytryingtorememberwhichoneitwas.Whatmylastwordstomysonhadbeen.
ButIcouldn’t.Icouldn’tremember.That’showordinaryitwas.
“Ourson,”Benhadinterjected,placinghishandonmyknee.Ilookedoveratmyhusband,rememberingthathewasthere.“Hewastakenthatnightfromhisbedroom.Whileweweresleeping.”
Dr.Harrishadtohaveknown,ofcourse.TheentirestateofGeorgiahadknown—theentirecountry,even.Thenhehadbowedhisheadthewaymostpeopleseemedtodowhentheyrealizedtheirmistakeanddidn’tknowwhatelsetosay,hisneckmimickingthesnapofashuttinglid.Conversationclosed.
“ButIzzyhasalwayshad…problems,”Bencontinued.Suddenly,IfeltlikeIwasindetention.“Withsleep.Evenbeforetheinsomnia.Kindoftheoppositeproblem,actually.”
Dr.Harrishadlookedatmethen,studyingme,likeIwassomekindofriddletobecracked.
“Aboutfiftypercentofsleepdisordercasesarerelatedtoanxiety,depression,orsomekindofpsychosocialdistressordisorder,sothismakessense,givenwhatyou’vebeenthrough,”hehadsaid,clickinghispen.“Insomniaisnoexception.”
Irememberlookingoutthewindow,thesunhighinthesky.Myeyelidswerefeelingheavierwitheverypassingsecond;mybrain,cloudier,asthoughIwereenvelopedinablanketoffog.Thepenwasstillclicking,amplifiedinmyearslikeatickingtimebombreadytoblow.
“We’llrunsometests,”hesaidatlast.“Maybegetyouonsomemedication.We’llhaveyoubacktonormalinnotime.”
I’mreachingforRoscoe’sleashwhenIcatchaglimpseofmyselfinthehallwaymirrorandwince.It’sanautomaticreaction,likejerkingyourfingersawayfromahotstove.Ishouldbegentleronmyself,Iknow.I’vebeenthroughalot,butthelackofsleephasbecomesoapparentonmyfaceit’shardnottonotice.IlooklikeI’veagedyearswithinmonths,withthenewbagshangingheavybeneathmyeyes,droopyandworn.Thethinswathesofskinbeneathmytearductshavemorphedfromawarmolivetoadeep,darkpurple,likeamarblingbruise,whiletherestofmyfacehastakenonagrayishtone,likechickenthat’sbeenleftinthefridgetoolong.I’velosttwentypoundsintwelvemonths,whichdoesn’tseemlikethatmuch,butwhenyou’realreadytallandwaifish,itshows.Itshowsinmycheeks,myneck.Myhips—or,rather,mylackthereof.Myhair,usuallyadeep,glossybrown,lookslikeit’sdying,too,theendssplitcleaninhalflikeasplinteredtreethat’sbeenstruckbylightning.Thecolorgrowingdullerbytheday.
IforcemyselftoturnaroundandfastenRoscoe’sleashtohiscollarbeforesteppingbackoutside,thecoolnightairmakingtheskinonmyarmsprickle.ThenIlockthedoorbehindusandtakearight,settingoutonourusualpath
IsleofHopeisatinylittlespitofland,barelytwosquaremiles.I’vewalkedtheentirethinghundredsoftimes,memorizedthewaytheSkidawayRiverslithersacrosstheeastsidelikeawatermoccasin,shinyandslick.ThewaytheoaktreeshaveformedagiantarchwayovertheBluff,theirlimbsgettingmangledtogetherintimelikethelacingtogetherofarthriticfingers.Butitisamazinghowcompletelyaplacechangesinthedark:Roadsthatyou’velivedonyourentireadultlifelookdifferent,likeinsteadofsteppingontosmoothpavement,you’rewalkingstraightintothemurkyriveritself.Youstarttonoticelightpolesthatyouusedtoignore,thedimmingandsubsequentbrighteningasyouworkyourwaybetweeneachonetheonlywaytogaugedistanceordepth.Shadowsbecomeshapes;everytinymovementiseye-catching,likethedanceofdryleavesonthegroundorthelegsofphantomchildrenpushinganemptyswing,chainssqueakinginthebreeze.Windowsaredark,curtainsdrawn.ItrytoimaginethelifeinsideeachhouseasIpass—thegentlestirringofachildastheysleep,anightlightcastingotherworldlyshapesagainstthewall.Spousesinbedtogether,skin-to-skin,bodiestangledtightbetweenthesheets—orperhapspushedasfarapartashumanlypossible,separatedbyaninvisiblecoldlinedrawndownthecenter.
Asforme,I’mfamiliarwithboth.
Andthentherearethecreaturesofthenight.Thelivingthings,likemyself,thatcrawloutoftheirhidingspotsandcomealiveintheabsenceofothers.Raccoonsscurryingacrosstheshadows,rootingthroughtrash.Thedistanthootofanowlorsnakesslitheringoutoftheirshadyplacesandleavingbehindnothingbuttheirowndriedskin.Thescreamofcricketsandcicadasandotherinvisiblethingsthatpulsethroughthegrasswithasteadydetermination,likethepumpingofbloodthroughveins.
Iapproachthemarshattheedgeofmyneighborhoodandstop,staringoutattheinkywaterIcanhearlappingagainsttheshore.IwasborninBeaufort,justbarelyoveranhourfromhere.I’velivedonthewatermyentirelife,learnedtoswimwithminnowsticklingmyfeetandthesoundofshrimpskiddingacrossthesurfaceatlowtide.I’vetiedchickenneckstoastringandletthemdangleforhours,waitingpatientlyuntilIfeltthatfamiliarprickleoflifeontheotherendoftheline,watchingascountlessanimalsgnawedtheirwaytowardtheirowndemise:asickentertainmentthat,eventhen,Ididn’tunderstand.
Ibreatheinthesmellofthemarshnow,onesinglewhiffimmediatelytransportingmebackthere.Backhome.Tothewaythesalttakestotheair,makingitthicklikebuttermilk.Tothepluffmud’sfamiliarstenchofrotlikeadecayingtooth.Becausethat’swhatitis,afterall.That’sthesmellofdecomposition;theliquidkissoflifeanddeath.
Millionsoflivingthingsdyingtogether,andmillionsofotherthingscallingithome.
Istareintothedistanceandfeelmyarmriseinstinctively,touchingthedelicatepatchofskinbehindmyear.ThespotIalwaysgravitatetowhenI’mstuckinamemory.Thismemory.Itrytoignorethetwistinmystomach,thatfeelingofsomeoneplungingtheirhandintomyinsidesandgrabbingthemtightly,refusingtoletgo.
IlookdownatRoscoe,atthewayhe’sstandingjustattheedgeofthewater.He’sstaringintothedarkness,too,hiseyestrainedonsomethinginthedistance.
“C’mon,”Isay,givinghisleashatug.“Let’sgohome.”
Wemakeourwayback,andoncewestepinside,Ishutthefrontdoor,lockthedeadbolt,andfillupRoscoe’swaterbowlbeforepushingvariousleftoversaroundinthefridge.ThenIpulloutaTupperwarecontainerofspaghetti,openthelid,andsniff.Thewetnoodlesflopintoabowl,stillmoldedtogetherinanoblongtube,andIthrustitintothemicrowave,staringattheclockasmydinnerspins.Thoselittledigitalnumbersglowinginthedark.
3:14a.m.
Whenthemicrowavebeeps,Ipullthebowloutandbringitintomydiningroom,pushingasidethevariouspapersandfoldersandstickynoteswithmidnightmusingsscratchedacrosstheirsurfaceswithdried-outpens.ThechairscreechesasIpullitout,andRoscoeamblesovertomeatthenoise,restingatmyfeetasIjabmyforkintothepastaandspin.
ThenIstareatthewall,myskinpricklingasitstaresback.
Ilookintothesmilingeyesofmyneighbors,theirpicturesclippedfromchurchdirectoriesandfacultyyearbooks;theirstatementsandalibisandhobbiesandschedulespinnedintoplace.Ianalyzethedeadeyesofmugshots;theexpressionsofthestrangerswhosepicturesI’vepluckedfrompoliceblottersortornfromnewspaperarticlesthatnowdecoratemydiningroomwalllikesomekindofhigh-school-girlcollage—anobsessionIdon’tknowhowtotame.Soinstead,Istare.Iwonder.Itrytogazepastthepaperandintotheirminds,readingtheirthoughts.Because,likethosepeopleontheplane,someoneouttherehasasecret.
Someone,somewhere,knowsthetruth.
CHAPTERFOUR
THEN
Icometoinastart.It’sthekindofpanickedawakeningthatfollowsaslammeddoororabreakingglass:notagentleemergencebutajarringdisruption.IimmediatelyknowI’mnotalone.There’sanotherbodypushedagainstmine,warmandslightlydamplikealeakyfurnace.Littlepuffsofbreathhotonmyneck.
Itwistaround,blinkquicklyastwolargeeyescomeintofocus.
“Youweredoingitagain.”
Irubmyowneyeswiththebacksofmyhandsandstareatmysister,herhairtangledtogetherlikestringsofmeltedcaramel.Herthumbispushedgentlybetweenherlipsasshelooksatmeexpectantly.Itrytorememberhercomingintomyroomlastnight,liftingthedeadweightofmyarmbeforewrigglingherlittlebodyflushagainstmine,drapingitbackoverherstomachlikeaseatbelt.
Itrytoremember,butIcan’t.
“Sorry,”Isay.
“Itscaresmewhenyoudothat.”
“It’sokay.”Iwetmyfingers,reachforherhead,andpatdownaparticularlylargeknot,likeacatlickinganewborn.“It’sjustsleepwalking.”
“Yeah,butIdon’tlikeit.”
“Ican’thelpit,”Isnap.Forasecond,I’mannoyed.I’vealwaysbeengroggyinthemornings.I’vealwaysbeenalittleirritable,likemybrainisperturbedatbeingforcedtowakeupanddragitselftowork.ButthenIrememberthatshecan’thelpit,either.She’sonlysix.
Iforcemyselftoexhale,tobreathe.
“WhatwasIdoing?”
“Juststandingthere,”shesays.Thesideofherfaceispushedintomypillow,squishinghercheek.“Youreyeswereopen.”
Irollontomybackandstareattheceiling,tracingthecrackthatstartsatthebaseofthechandelierandbranchesoutwardlikelittletributariessnakingtheirwayacrossthecement,collectinginthecorners.Aninterchangeofveins.I’vealwaysbeenaheavysleeper,aslongasIcanremember.Oncemyheadhitsthepillow,Ienteraslumbersodeep,nothingcanwakeme.Nothing.Afewmonthsago,Isleptcleanthroughafirealarmblaringjustoutsidemybedroomdoor.Irememberstirringawakeonmyown,outsideinmynightgown,apungentsmokinessintheair.Thefeelingofmybarefeetstickingtothedewygrassasmyfatherheldmyhandinthedark,squeezing.ApparentlyIhadwalkedoutsidewithhim,myfingersclenchedtightlybetweenhis.Istoodthereforthirtyminutes,rigidanduprightandentirelyunconscious,watchingasthefirefightersdousedouttheflamesthathadtakentoourkitchen,lickingupthewalls.
“WherewasI?”Iask.
“Inmybedroom,”Margaretsays,herpupilsstillflickingbackandforthacrossmyface.“Youwokemeup.”
Ifeelahotflashofembarrassmentcrawlupmyneckatthethoughtofmylittlesisterfeelingsomeonewatchingherassheslept.Ofopeninghereyes,blinkingrapidlyashervisionadjustedtoseeme,finally,standingmotionlessinthedark.
“Didyoutrytowakeme?”
“No,”shesays.“Momsaidnotto.It’sdangerous.”
“It’snotdangerous.That’sanoldwives’tale.”
Margaretpushesherselfdeeperintomycomforter,andItry,sohard,topictureit:myeyesclickingopenwithalifelessstare.Mytorsosittingupright,swivelingtotheside,andmyskinnylegsswingingoverthemattress.Hangingthere,kicking,likeI’msittingontheedgeofthedock,toesinthemarsh,blindtothelifethat’slurkingjustbeneath.FeelingtheplushshagcarpetonmyfeetasIwalkacrossmyroom,openthedoor,andcreepdownthehallway
Itry,butIcan’t.
“Whatdidyoudo?”
“Justlaythereandwaitedforyoutoleave,”shesays.“ThenIfollowedyouintoyourroom.”
“Whydidyougetintobedwithme?”
“Idon’tknow.”Sheshrugs.“Icouldn’tsleep.That’swhatIdowhenI’mscared.”
Ilookatmysister,placemyopenpalmonhercheek,andsmile.Margaret,mylittleshadow.Shefollowsmeeverywhere.Alwaysrunningtomewhenshe’safraid—even,apparently,whenI’mtheoneshe’safraidof.
“Howlongareyougoingtokeepdoingthis?”sheasks.
“Idon’tknow,”Isay,sighing.Andthat’sthetruth.Idon’tknow.Idon’tknowhowoftenithappens,butjudgingbythenumberoftimesI’vewokenupinstrangeplacesoverthelastfewmonths,I’dsayit’snotinfrequent.Comingtowhilestandingrigidinourlivingroom,thetelevisionemittingasilentblueglow.Sittingatthekitchentablewithabowlofcerealinthedark.Meinmywhitenightgown,litbythemoonlight,hauntingthehallsliketheghostofsomelost,lonelygirl.Thedoctorsaysit’sharmless—common,even,forkidsmyage—buttheideaofmybodyactingindependentlyfrommymindisalittleeerie,that’sall.Thefirsttimeithappened,IwokeuponthefloorofMargaret’sbedroom;shewassittingrightnexttome,playingwithdolls.Shehadn’tevenrealizedIwassleeping.“DadsaidI’llgrowoutofit.”
“Butwhen?”
“Idon’tknow,Margaret.”Ibitedownontheinsideofmycheek,hard,tokeepmyselffromsayingsomethingmean.SomethingI’llregret.“I’msorry,though,okay?I’mnotgoingtohurtyou.Ipromise.”
Shelooksatme,consideringmywords,beforenoddingherhead.
“Nowlet’sgo,”Isay,flingingbackthecovers.
Iswingmylegsoverthesideofthebed,readytogetup,whensomethingstopsme:acatchinmythroat,fearlodgedsomewheredeepandoutofreach.Therearefootprintsonmycarpet—faint,butthere—alittledirttrailleadingfrommybedroomdoortothesideofmybed.Iswallow,myeyesdartingovertothewindownext.Tothehalfacreofgrassthatbuttsupagainstthemarsh;agentle,muddyslope.
Irubmyfootagainstoneoftheprints,hard,tryingtomakeitdisappear.
“Comeon,”Isayatlast,hopingMargaretwon’tsee.“Let’sgetsomebreakfast.”
CHAPTERFIVE
NOW
ThemiddaynewswhispersinthebackgroundasIshufflethroughthehouse,makingmythirdcupofcoffee.I’veshoweredandchangedsincelastnight,peelingmyselffromthecouchatthefirsttrickleoflightthroughthewindowsbeforemakingmywayintothebathroom,turningontheshowerhead,andcraningmyneck,lettingthespraypeltmyskin.
ThenIhadclosedmyeyes,heldmybreath.Imagined,asIhavesomanytimes,whatitmightfeelliketodrown.
Exhaustiondoesstrangethingstothebrain,thingsthatarehardtoreasonwith.Hardtoexplain.I’vebeenthinkingalotabouttortureeversinceI’vestoppedsleeping—andnottheovertlyviolentkind,either,liketakingarustedbladetotheskinorapairofoldplierstoanoutstretchedfinger.I’vebeenthinkingaboutthepainstakinglynormalkind.Thekindthatusessimplenecessitieslikesleeporsustenancetoturnusintotheworstversionsofourselves:isolation,sensorydeprivation,waterboarding.
Iunderstandwhatit’slikenow,howmaddening,lyingawakeinthemiddleofthenightwithnothingbutyourthoughtsforcompany.
Ofcourse,Ihavegottensomesleepoverthepastyear.I’dbedeadifIhadn’t.I’vefoundmyselfnoddingoffinwaitingroomsortaxicabs,blinkingmyeyesandlookingattheclock,realizingthatIcouldn’taccountforthelasthour.Allofthoselittlemicrosleepsthroughouttheday:meresecondsofintense,deep,bewilderingunconsciousnessthatseemtocomeoutofnowhereandevaporatejustasfast.Restlesscatnapsonmycouch,wakingupeveryfifteenminutesbeforedroppingoffagain.Dr.Harrisprescribedmesleepingpillsintheearlydays,instructingmetotakeoneeverynightasthesunwentdown.Itriedthemafewtimes,butthedosagewasneverstrongenough,soI’dstartedhoardingthem.Takingthreeorfouruntilmyeyelidsfinallystartedtofeelheavy,buteventhen,I’dpopbackawakeafteracoupleofhours,feelinggroggyandslow,unabletothink.Unabletodoanything.
Sometimes,themindisjuststrongerthanourattemptstooverrideit.
Isitatthekitchentablenow,mugbetweenmyhands,andstareattheenvelopesealedbeforeme.IhadsnatcheditlastnightfromthemanwiththeclipboardwiththesameembarrassmentIimaginehookersmightfeelwhentheycollecttheircash—afterall,Ihadexposedmyselftothosepeopleforpay.
Maybenotmybody,butmysoul,andsomehow,thatfeelsworse.
Itakeasipofcoffeenowandfliptheenvelopeover,looseningtheclaspandslidingitscontentsoutonthetable.Thisismyfee:thefullattendeelist,completewithnamesandemailaddressesofeverysinglepersonwhopurchasedaticket.TheleaddetectiveonMason’scaseoncetoldmethatcriminalsoftenshowupatpubliceventslikepresslittlebitfurther—ortotryandstayinformedofthelatestbreaksinthecase.Bythatlogic,IstarteddemandingtheattendeelistateveryconferenceI’vespokenat,hopingthatsomeoneintheaudiencemightstandout.TheorganizersalwaysbalkwhenIrequestit—theyclaimit’saninvasionofprivacy,untilIpointouttheattendeesalreadyagreedtothedisseminationoftheirinformationintheTermsandAgreements.
Itwasinthefineprint.It’salwaysinthefineprint.
Intheend,theyalwaysagree.Afterall,aspeakerlikemecouldgetawaywithchargingthousandsofdollarsperappearance—ahigh-profilecase,coldbutnotyetdiscarded.Butinstead,allIaskforisthis:information.Accesstosomething,anything,thatIcouldpotentiallyuse.
Myeyesscanthegridofnames,listedalphabetically.
AaronPierce,AbigailFisher,AbrahamClark,AdamShrader.
It’salwaysthesame:searchingforthemonFacebook,siftingthroughprofilesandtryingtodeterminewheretheymightlive.Ilookforchildlesswomen,maybe.Lonelysoulswithtoomanycatsandtoomuchfreetime,ormaybemenwhosetoffthealarmbellsthataresomehowhardwiredintoourbrains.Theoneswitheyeslikeicecubes,coldandhard,thatraisethelittlehairsonthebacksofournecks,thoughwecan’tevenputafingeronwhy.
AlexanderWoodward,AliciaBryan,AllanByers,BaileyDeane.
Itoggleovertothesexoffenderregistrynext,toseeifthey’rethere.ThenIhighlighttheirnameifanythingunusualpopsupandmoveontothenextone,repeatingtheprocessalloveragain.
It’stedious,mind-numbingwork,butwithnosuspectsandnoleads,thisiswhereIamrightnow.Thisisallthat’sleft.
Someofthesenamesseemvaguelyfamiliar,andIknowI’vesearchedthembefore.Afterawhile,youstartrunningintothesamepeopleoverandoveragain.Thereareregularsatthesethings,andtheyalwaysfindme,somehow,introducingthemselvesagainorjustassumingIshouldrememberthem.Expectingmetoengagewiththeirquestionsandtheirsmalltalk,asifIamnothingmorethananauthorattheirbookclub.
AsifIshouldbeaskingthemhowtheyfeelaboutmystory,abouttheunresolvedending.Abouttheiropinionsofitall.
It’sthelittlethingsthatbothermethemost:Thewaytheirfingersrestgentlyonmyarm,likethey’reafraidImightbreak.ThewaytheirheadscocktothesidelikecuriouspuppiesandhowtheirmurmursalwaysdipafewoctavestoolowsoIhavetoleaninclose,straintohear.Thefloralperfumedabbedbeneaththeirearsandtheirwarm,stalebreathmakingmystomachchurn.
“Ican’tevenimagine,”they’dsayatlast,“thepainyou’veendured.”
Andthey’reright:Theycan’timagine.Thereisnowaytoimagineituntilyou’rerightinthethickofit,livingit,andbythen,it’stoolate.
Theviolencehascomeforyou,too.
IcanhearRoscoesnoringatmyfeet,hisbreathrhythmicandpeaceful,untilthecharmsonhiscollarclankasheliftshisheadandstaresatthefrontdoor.Myheartsinks,watchinghimgetup,trotover,andsitpatientlybythewindowasashadowofamanappearsoutside.Isqueezemyeyesshut,takeadeepbreath,andliftmyhandtomychest,myfingersmassagingtheoutlinesofthenecklacehiddenbeneathmyshirt.ThenImakemywaytothedoor.
IknowwhoitisbeforeIheartheknock.
“Goodmorning,”Isay,openingthedoorandstaringatmyhusband,realizingtoolatethatit’salreadywellpastnoon.“Whatasurprise.”
“Hey,”Bensays,hiseyeslookinganywherebutintomine.“CanIcomein?”
Iopenitwiderandgestureforhimtocomeinside.There’sarigidpolitenessinhisposture,asifwewerestrangers.Asifhedidn’tusedtoliveinthisveryhouse;asifhislipshaven’ttouchedeveryinchofmyskin,hisfingershaven’texploredeverybirthmarkandblemishandscar.HeleansdownandpetsRoscoe,whisperinggoodboyoverandoveragain.Iwatchtheirinteraction,naturalandcalm,andwishRoscoewouldcurlbackhislip,barehisteeth.Givemyhusbandamenacingsnarlforleavinghim,leavingus.
Instead,helicksBen’sfingers.
“WhatcanIdoforyou?”Iask,crossingmyarmstightagainstmychest.
“Justcheckingin.Today,youknow.”
“Yeah.Iknow.”
Today.Daythreehundredandsixty-five.OnefullyearsinceourfinaldaywithMason.OneyearsinceIreadhimthatstoryandtuckedhimintight;sinceIclimbedintobednexttoBenandclosedmyeyes,driftedsoeasilyintothatlong,stillslumber,blissfullyunawareofthehellthatwaitedforusontheothersideofdawn.
“Stillnotsleeping,huh?”
Itrynottoletthecommenthurt—hedoesn’tmeanitlikethat,Iknowhedoesn’t—butstill,Ihateitwhenheseesmelikethis.
“Howcanyoutell?”
Itrytocrackasmile,showhimthatI’mkidding,butI’mnotquitesurehowitcomesout.Maybeabitderanged,becausehedoesn’tsmileback.
ItstartedasadesperateneedtostayawakeincaseMasoncameback.Someonehadtakenmybaby,afterall.Someonehadtakenhimfromme,andIhadsleptthroughitall.Whatkindofmotherdoesthat?Whatkindofmotherdoesn’twakeup?IfeltlikeIshouldhaveknown—Ishouldhavehadsomekindofprimalfeelingthatsomethingwashappening,somethingwaswrong—butIdidn’t.Ididn’tfeelanything.Soforthosefirstfewnights,ItoldmyselfI’dstayawake,justincase.Thatmaybe,inthemiddleofthenight,I’dpeekintohisnursery,andtherehe’dbe:sittingupstraightinhiscriblikeheneverevenleft.Thathewouldcrackthatgummylittlesmilewhenhesawme.Thathewouldreachforme,fingerscurledaroundhisfavoritestuffedanimal,andfinallyfeelsafe.
Iwantedtobeawakeforthat—no,Ineededtobeawakeforthat.
Thennightsturnedintoweeks,weekstomonths,andMasonstillwasn’thome—butbythen,Iwaswireddifferently.Iwaschanged.Somethinghadsnappedinmybrain,atautrubberbandthatjustcouldn’ttakethepressureanymore.Benhadbeggedmeinthebeginning,triedtopullmeawayfromthewindowwhereIstood,feetplanted,staringintothedarkness.
“Thisisn’tdoinganybodyanygood,”hewouldsay“Izzy,youneedtorest.”
AndIknewhewasright—Iknewitwasn’tdoinganygood—butstill,Icouldn’thelpit.Icouldn’tsleep.
“How’swork?”Benasksnow,strainingforconversation.
“Slow,”Isay,tuckingaroguestrandofhairbehindmyear.Ihadletitairdry,resultinginawiryhaloofbabyhairsIfeelticklingmyforehead.“I’mnotgettingatonofoffersatthemoment.”
“Iwouldthinkbusinesswouldbebetterthanusual,”heresponds,walkingovertothecouchandtakingaseat.Itannoysmehedoesn’taskpermission,butthenagain,hedidbuyit.“Youknow,giventhepublicity.”
“Idon’twanttodoanythingthatfeelsexploitative.”
“Andthat’sdifferentfromwhatyou’recurrentlydoing…how?”
IstareatBen,andhestaresback.Thisiswhyhe’shere—whyhe’sreallyhere.Hemusthaveheardaboutitsomehow:mykeynote.Iknewhewouldeventually,justnotthissoon.
“Whydon’tyoujustcomeoutandsayit,”Isay.“Comeon,Ben.Justsayit.”
“Fine,I’llsayit.Whatthefuckareyoudoing?”
“I’mtryingtokeephiscasealive.”
“Itisalive,”heresponds,exasperated.We’vehadthisconversationsomanytimes.“Isabelle,thepoliceareworkingonit.”
Isabelle.Hedoesn’tcallmeIzzyanymore.
“You’vegottostopthis.Allofit,”hesays,gesturingtothediningroom.Inoticedhimstealaglanceearlier,thatsubconsciousflinchasheroundedthecorner,likesteelingforapunch,hiseyesskippingoverallthepicturesclutteringupthespacewhereanoilpaintingofourweddingoncehung.“It’snothealthy.Besides,itlooks—”
“Howdoesitlook?”Iinterrupt,angerbuildinginmychest.“Please,tellme.”
“Itlookswrong,”hesays,wringinghishands.“You,standingupanddoingthatinfrontofsomesickaudiencethedaybeforetheanniversary.Itdoesn’tlooknormal.”
“Andwhatexactlywouldlookbetter,Ben?Whatwouldlooknormal?Doingnothing?”
Istareathim,mynailsdiggingintomypalms.
“Theyhavenothing,”Icontinue.“Theyhavenoone,Ben.Whoeverdidthisisstilloutthere.Whoevertookhim…”Istop,bitingmylipbeforeIstarttocry.Iexhale,tryagain.“Idon’tunderstandwhyyoudon’tcare.Whyyoudon’twanttofindhim.”
Benshootsupfromthecouch,hisfacesuddenlyflushedwithblood,andIknowI’vegonetoofar.
“Don’tyoueversaythat!”heyells,pointinghisfingeratme.There’sabeadofspitonhislip,quivering.“Don’tyoueveraccusemeofnotcaring.Youhavenoideawhatthishasbeenlikeforme.Hewasmyson,too.”
“Is,”Icorrect,myvoiceawhisper.“Heisyourson,too.”
We’rebothsilent,staringateachotherfromacrossthelivingroom.
“Hecouldstillbealive,”Isay,feelingthetearswellinmyeyesagain.“Wecouldstillfindhim—”
“Isabelle,he’snotalive.He’snot.”
“Hecouldbe—”
“He’snot.”
IwatchasBensighs,pushinghishandsthroughhishairandtuggingattheends.Thenhewalksovertomeandwrapshisarmsaroundme.Ican’tbringmyselftohughimback,soinsteadIjuststandthere.Deadweight.
“Isabelle,”hewhispers,hisfingersrunningtheirwaythroughmyhair.“Ihatebeingtheonetokeeptellingyouthis,Ireallydo.Itripsmeapart.Butthesooneryouacceptwhathappened,thesooneryoucanmoveon.Youhavetomoveon.”
“It’sbeenayear,”Irespond.“Howcanyoumoveoninayear?”
“Ihaven’t,”hesays.“ButI’mtrying.”
I’mquiet,feelinghishandsonthebackofmyhead;hisbreathonmyear,warmanddamp,andthegentlethumpofhisheartagainstmychest.Iopenmymouth,readytoapologize,whensuddenly,hepullsback.
“Speakingofwhich,there’ssomethingelse,too,”hesays,droppinghisarms.“SomethingI’vebeenmeaningtotalktoyouabout.”
Icockmyhead,unsureofhowtoanswer
“Mytherapisttalksalotabouthowpartofmovingonisbeingopentonewpossibilities,”hesays.“Youknow,gettingexcitedforthefutureagain.Whatever,orwhoever,thatentails.”
“Okay,”Isay,crossingmyarmstight,tryingtoignorethehopefultwingeinmychest.Ican’tdenythatI’vethoughtaboutthis:ThepossibilityofBencrawlingback.OfapologizingforleavingmewhenIneededhimthemost.
ButIcan’tsaythatIblamehim,either.Losingachildmakesyoulosealotofthings.Yourrationality,yourmind
“IwantedyoutoknowthatI’mseeingsomeone.”
Hiswordshitmelikeastomachpunch,swiftandhard.Itrytohidemyshock,butI’msuremyexpressionshowsitbecausehedoesn’twaitformetorespond.
“Itisn’tseriousoranything.It’snew,justafewdates,butSavannah’sasmalltown,youknow.Peopletalk.Iwantedyoutohearitfrommefirst.”
“Oh,”Ifinallymanage,mynailssqueezingintomysides,makingithurt.Iimaginethemleavinglittlecrescent-shapedslitsinmystomachlikebitemarks,sinkingdeepintomyskin.
“IdebatedwhetherornotIshouldtellyoutoday,butintheend…Idon’tknow,”hesays,hishandspunchedintohispockets.“Ididn’twantyoutofindoutsomeotherway.”
“It’sokay,”Isay,stillsearchingforwordsandunabletofindthem.“That’s…that’sokay.Imean,that’sgood—foryou,Iguess.I’mgladyoutoldme.”
“Itisgood,”hesays.Icanseehisshouldersrelaxabit,alongexhale,likethetensionhehadbeenholdingtheresuddenlymeltedlikewax.“Evenifitdoesn’tgoanywhere,it’sbeengoodforme.It’sbeengivingmehope,Izzy.AndIwantthatforyou,too.”
Myearsburnatthefamiliarsound,Izzy,myoldnicknameonhislipssuddenlyrancidandwrong.Whatusedtobesotender,fulloflongingandlove,nowfeelslikeapunishment:somethingswathedinpity,likealukewarmsmiletossedacrosstheroomwhensomeoneyouusedtolovecatchesyouhangingoutwithoutthem.
“I’llseeyoutonight?”heasks,pullingahandfromhispocketandrestingitonmyshoulder.
Inod,smile,andwatchashepetsRoscoeandmakeshiswaytowardthedoor,thewholetimetryingtoignorethetinglingonmyskinintheexactplacewherehetouchedme.Whenheclosesthedoorbehindhim,Ifeelaslowstretchinmyinsides:thehollowness,growing,likeagapingblackhole.
ThenIdipmyhandbeneathmyshirt,findingmynecklace,andclutchthering—Ben’sring—thatdanglesfromachainfastenedtightlyaroundmythroat.
CHAPTERSIX
MyhousereeksofBenevenafterhe’sleft.Hisspicedaftershaveandsoapyhairgel;thesrirachaturkeysandwichIknowheateinhiscaronthewayover.Isawadabofitonhisshirtcollar,alittleredsmear.Afewyearsago,Iwouldhaverolledmyeyesathisclumsiness,lickedmythumbandrubbeditagainstthestain.Maybepoppedmyfingerintomymouthafterward,savoringtheheat.Alittleteasebeforeheleftforwork,ensuringthathewouldspendthedaythinkingofme.
Notanymore,though.Now,wheneverIseehim,Itastesomethingmetallic.Likesuckingonpenniesorlickingafreshwound,tastingbloodonmytongue.It’slikemybodyisrefusingtoletmeforgethowdeeplyhehurtme.Whenhelooksatmewiththosegentleeyes,softandsweetliketwodollopsofwhippedcream,Idon’tmeltthewayIusedto.
Instead,Iharden.
“Losingachildisoneofthemosttryingthingsacouplecangothrough,”Dr.HarrishadsaidthefirsttimeIshoweduptoourappointmentalone.Ididn’thavetosayanything;somehow,hejustknew.Maybehesawitcoming.“Somemakeitoutstronger,butmostdon’tmakeitoutatall.”
Ihadwantedtofallintothecategoryofsome.Really,Idid.Noteventomakeitoutstronger—justtomakeitoutalive.Butthat’sthethingaboutgrief:Thereisnomanualforit.Thereisnochecklistoutliningtheoptimalwaytomovethroughitandmoveon.Ben,alwaystherealist,simplybowedhisheadandswamagainstthecurrent.Fromdayone,heleanedonstatisticsandfacts,adjustingtheprobabilityofMason’sreturneverysingledayuntil,finally,hedecideditwastimetostopswimming.Wehadlosttherace,anditwastimetoadmitdefeat.Itwastimetorest.Iknewitwaspainfulforhim.Iknewithurt.Iknewittookeverythinginhimtokeephimselfmovingforward—andevenmoretoforcehimselftostop—butIcouldn’tevenkeepmyheadabovewater.Fromtheverybeginning,Iwasdragginghimdown,drowninghimwithme,andwhenherealizedhecouldn’tsaveusboth,hedecidedtosavehimself.
Turnsout,wewerewedgedfirmlyinwithmost
Ifindmyselfwonderingnowifmostatleastmakeitayear,becausewecertainlydidn’t.Webarelyevenmadeitsixmonths.
Wedidn’thavethemosttraditionalcourtship,BenandI,somaybeIshouldn’tbesurprisedthatarelationshipthatstartedoutwiththespeedandelectricityoflightningdisappearedjustasfast—butstill.Wesharedsevenyearstogether.Seven.
That’ssomething.
Ican’thelpbutthinkbackonitnow,themomentwefirstmet.Itfeltlikefate,honestly;thecollision,quiteliterally,oftwopeoplewhowerejustmeanttobetogether.Atthetime,itremindedmeofthestars:howtwocancollideandfuseintoone—bigger,brighter,strongerthanbefore.ButwhatIdidn’tknowthenwasthatwhentheycollidetoofast,theydon’tfuseatall.Instead,theyexplode,evaporatingintonothing.
IhadjustmovedtoSavannahbackthen,threeyearsoutofcollegeandmybarelyfurnishedstudioapartmentjustblocksfrommynewofficeatTheGrit.Idon’tevenremembertheexactmomentIdecidedIwantedtobeawriterforTheGrit;itwasjustsomethingIhadalwaysknown,thesamewaydoctorsandfirefighterscarrytheirchildhooddreamsoverintoadulthood,cuppingthemsotightlytheyforgettolookupandnoticewhatelsecouldpossiblybeoutthere.Whatelseexists.
Someofmybestmemoriesinvolvelyingonthefloorofmyparents’livingroom,MargaretandI,belly-sidedownonarust-redoriental.OurskinnylegswouldkickintheairasMargaretflippedthroughtheglossypages,pointingatherfavoritepictures.Tellmeastory,she’dcroon,andIwouldreadtheaccompanyingarticleoutloudforher,soundingouteveryword.Itwasthekindofmagazinepeoplenoticedinairportsandgrocerystores,withathickmattecoverandexpensive-lookingpaper;thekindofmagazinepeoplekeptasacoffee-tabledecoration—peoplelikemyparents—itsmereexistencesoperfectlymirroringthetypeofimagetheyaspiredtouphold:sophisticated,cultured,well-to-do
Theirtagline,soimpeccablysuccinct:TheGritTellstheStoriesoftheSouth
ImovedattheendofOctober,aweekbeforemyfirstday.IrememberthinkingthatalltheseSoutherncitiesarealwaysabitofthesame,withtheirgiantliveoaksandSpanishmossandwrought-irongatescrawlingwithstarjasmine—butatthesametime,allabitdifferent,too.Uniqueintheirownright.Savannahremindedmeofhome,butonlythegoodparts,asifthesquishybruiseshadbeenextractedwithaswitchblade,leavingnothingbutripepossibility.AndIwaslovingit,Ireallywas,butfivewholedaysofsolitude—ofnotrecognizingasingleface,utteringasingleword—cangetalittlelonely,sobythatweekend,Ihaddecidedtogetdressedupandventureoutonmyown.
IrememberamblinguptoalittlespotbytheSavannahRiver,myhandspunchedintomypocketsandthesmellofsmokeandjalape?osmakingmynostrilsflare.ThenIwalkeduptotheoutdoorbar,mybreathcomingoutinpuffs.
“Fifteendollarsforallyoucaneat,”thebartenderhadsaid.Hesmelledlikesaltwaterandmarshmudandthesourtracesofwarm,spiltbeer.“Comeswithashuckerandtowel.”
Ifishedoutmywalletandhandedhimatwenty,exchangingthecashforaBlueMoon,alittleknife,andabucketfullofoysterssteamedoveragrateofhotcoals—butonceIswungaround,Iimmediatelyknockedintothemanbehindme,sendingmybeerflying.
“Iamsosorry,”Isaid,tryingtostoptherestofitfromsloshingdownmywrist.Ilookedathisjacket,atthefrothyliquiddrippingdownhischest.“OhGod,I’msorry.Ididn’tseeyou—”
Themanlookeddownathisjacket,soaking,andwipedtheexcessoffwithhisgloves.Thenhelookedbackatme,tookinmyface,andsmiled,thecornerofhislippullingupgentlyuntilIgotaglimpseofhisteeth.
“It’sfine,noworries,”hesaid.“Atleastyoudidn’thitmewiththat.”Hepointedtotheknifewedgedbetweenmyfingers,thebladestickingstraightout.“Shankedbyanoystershucker.Notapleasantwaytogo.”
Ilookeddownattheshucker,thenbackathim,horrified,feelinglikeakidgettingscoldedforrunningwithscissors.
“I’mkidding,”hesaidatlast,hissmilemorphingintoaplayfulgrin.Hemusthavenoticedmeblushing;myfaceturningadeep,darkred.“Youknowhowtousethatthing?”
“No,”Ilied.Idon’treallyknowwhyIsaidit.Iknewhowtoshuckanoyster,ofcourse.Digtheknifeintotheopening,twist,andpop.Butthismanwashandsome,andIhadjustspentthelastweekentirelyalone.Iwasn’treadyfortheconversationtoend;Iwasn’treadyforhimtowalkaway,formetobeonmyownagain.“Caretoshowme?”
Hegesturedtoanopentable,anoverturnedwhiskeybarrelwithaholeinthecentertotossintheemptyshells.Hegrabbedthefirstoysterhecouldfind,wriggledthemeatfree,anddroppeditontoasaltine,thrustingitinmydirection.
“Theykeyisplentyofcocktailsauce,alittlelemon,”hesaid,watchingme.“Ithelpstooffsetthesalt.”
“Thankyou.”Ismiled,poppingitintomymouthandlickingmylipsbeforethrustingoutmyfreehand.“I’mIsabelle.”
“Ben,”hesaid,givingmeafirmshake.ItwasthenthatInoticedhishandswereempty.
“Youneedadrink,”Isaid.“Letmebuyyouone.It’stheleastIcando.”
“Iwasactuallyjustonmywaytoclosemytab.”
“Oh.”Iblushedatthethoughtofmyflirtybanterbackfiring.“Well,thankyou,anyway,forthelesson.AndI’msorryagainaboutthebeer.”
Hehesitatedinhisspotforamoment,glancingbackatthebar,thenbackatme,likehewasconsideringsomethingverycarefully.
“Youknowwhat,”hesaidatlast.“Acouplemorewon’thurt.Andletmebuyyouone.It’stheleastIcando,youknow,sinceI’mnowwearingyours.”
IletoutalaughasIwatchedhimwalkawayandorderourdrinks,feelingatwingeofexcitementinmychest.Oncehecameback,Iimmediatelylaunchedintosmalltalk,notwaitingforhimtobetheonetochartthecourseoftheconversation.WetalkedaboutSavannahandhowlonghehadlivedhere;wetalkedaboutBeaufort,eventhoughItried,severaltimes,todiverttheconversationawayfromhome.Heaskedaboutmyfamily,mysiblings.
“Ihavealittlesister,”Isaid,keepingitatthat.Hedidn’tneedtoknowmoreaboutMargaret.Notyet,anyway.
Hetookthehintandchangedthesubject,askingnextaboutmyjob.
“I’mawriterforTheGrit.”Ismiled.Ididn’thavetofakeitthattime;theexcitementinmyvoicewasreal.“MyfirstdayisonMonday,actually.”
Iwatchedhiseyebrowsraise,alittlesmirkstretchacrosshismouth.Hewasimpressed.
“Wow,”hesaid.“TheGrit.”
“Ican’twait,”Iblurtedout.Iwasthreebeersdeepatthatpoint,feelingtalkativeandloose.“I’msoexcited.Ihaven’tevenbeentotheofficeyet,butI’veheardit’sjustgorgeous.Likesomethingoutofthemagazineitself.Imean,ofcourseitis.Isupposeithastobe,giventheirimage—”
Istopped,suddenlyrealizingthatIwasrambling.ThatBenwaslookingatme,smiling,tryingtostiflealaugh.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“I’mblabbering.Whatdoyoudo,Ben?”
“IguessyoucouldsayI’mawritermyself,”hesaid,lookingdownatthetable.“Butthat’senoughaboutwork.It’stheweekend.”
Hekepttalking,butatthatpoint,Icouldn’tlisten.Icouldbarelyhearaword.Instead,Iwaslookingathim,marvelingathowperfectthenighthadturnedouttobe.Thisgorgeousman:nice,funny—and,ontopofitall,awriter.Idon’tknowifitwasallthoseplasticcupsofdraftbeersittinginmystomachorthenearbybonfiremakingmycheekswarmandredorthefactthatthatwasthefirsttimeIhadfeltnormal,wanted,inGod-knows-how-long,butsomethingaboutthatmomentfeltright.SomethingaboutthatmomentfeltlikeifIdidn’tseizeit,Imightlivetoregretitfortherestofmylife.SoIpushedmyselfuponmytoes,leanedinclose,andgavehimakiss.
Irememberhislipsfeelingsaltyandsoft,theslickskinontheinsidecoldandhoppyfromtheremnantsofhisbeer.Iliftedmyhandandplaceditonhischeek,myfingersgentlytouchinghishair.Afteracoupleseconds,Ileanedbackandwipedmylipsonthebackofmyhand.
“I’msorry,”Isaid,mycheeksflushing,suddenlyembarrassed.“I’msorry,Idon’tknowwhyIdidthat.”
“It’sfine,”hesaid,buthissmilewasdifferent.Alittlebitbashful.“Really,don’tworryaboutit.”
“Ihavetogotothebathroom,”Iblurtedout,desperatetogetoutofthere.Awayfromhimforjustasecond.Ineededtorecollectmythoughts,composemyself.Figureoutwhattosaynext.SoItookoff,steppedintotherestroom,andlookedinthemirror,noticingthewaymyeyeswerealittlebitdarkanddisoriented,thewaytheyalwaysgotwhenIhadtoomuchtodrink.ButIalsonoticedthewaymycheekslookedsoalive,sorefromallthesmiling.Thewaymychestwasflushedwithred,warmnotjustfrommycoatandthefire,butfromallthattalking.Awarmnessthatcamefromtheinside.AcontentmentIhadn’tfeltinyears.
Ipushedmyselfoutofthebathroomagain,runningmyfingersthroughmyhairasIwalkedbacktoourtable.Ihaddecidedtoplayitoffwithajoke,maybesomeself-deprecatingjababoutbeingalightweight,butveryquickly,Irealizedthatsomethingwaswrong.
Hewasn’tthere.Hewasn’tanywhere.Benhadleft.
Andthat’swhenithitme:Thesuddenawkwardnessofthatkiss.ThewayhissmilehadlookedsodifferentwhenIpulledmyselfaway.Thewayhehadbeenstandingthere,armsathisside,somewhatrigid.Notmoving.
Hehadn’tkissedmeback.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Ipushthememoryfrommymindandmakemywaybacktothediningroom—butbeforeIgetbacktothelist,Iturntowardmycomputerandlaunchanewbrowserwindow,Googlingmyself.Mynameauto-populatesimmediately—I’vedonethissomanytimesbefore—andoncetheresultsload,IclickonNewsandsortchronologically
Aspredicted,there’sanarticle,lessthantwohoursold,aboutmykeynoteatTrueCrimeConIwonderifBenhasGoogleAlertssetuptonotifyhimanytimemynameismentioned.Thethoughtisendearingforasecond,untilIrealizethatheisn’tkeepingtabsonmebecausehecares.He’skeepingtabsbecausehe’sangry.
Iclickonthelinkandskim.
IsabelleDrakeheadlinedatTrueCrimeConthisweekend,thelargesttruecrimeconferenceintheworld,whichdrawsaglobalattendanceofover10,000.Thekeynotefocusedonherson,MasonDrake,whodisappearedfromhisbedroomonMarch6,2022,andhasyettobefound.Whilethecasehascaptivatedthecuriosityoftruecrimefansacrossthecountry,itremainsunsolvedoneyearlater,withnoviablesuspectsorlegitimateleads.DetectiveArthurDozieroftheSavannahPoliceDepartmentimploresthepublictoexercise“patienceandtrust”astheycontinuetoinvestigate,althoughDrakehastakenmattersintoherownhands,speakingopenlyaboutthecaseatconferencesandeventsacrossthecountry.WhilesomeseeDrakeasadeterminedmotherfightingtofindherson,othersbelieveherintrusionintoanopeninvestigationmaycomewithconsequences.
Istareatthepictureofmyself,openmouthedasIspeakintothemicrophone.I’vemanagedtodoaprettygoodjobofhidingmyinsomniafromothers:whiteeyelinertomakemyeyespop,extrablushforaprettyconvincingkickoflife.Nobodyknows,otherthanBen,whatmyexistencereallylookslikenow.
Howlongthedaysdragon;thenights,evenlonger.
ThebrightauditoriumlightsarereflectingofftheweddingringIstillwearinpublic,andIsnakemyhanddowntheneckofmyshirtagain,feelingthecoolmetalofBen’sringaroundmythroat.Itisn’thisweddingring—Icouldn’tgetawaywithtakingthat—butagoldcollegesignetringwithhisnameandgraduationdateengravedaroundtheoutside.Ifoundit,monthsago,tossedontopofourdresserashepackedhisbelongingsintovariousboxes.Irememberpickingitup,feelingthefamiliarwelloftearseruptatthethoughtoflosingyetanotherpersoninmylifethatIloved.
Then,beforeIcouldthinktwice,Ishoveditinmypocket.
Idon’tevenknowwhyIdidit.Iguessitwasbecausehewasleaving,leavingme,andthiswasapartofhimthatIcouldholdonto.Ormaybeitwasbecausebyleavingme,hewastakingtheverylastscrapofhopefromme—hopethatthingswouldsomehowwindupokay—andIhadwantedtotakesomethingfromhim,too.Evenifitwassomethingsmall,somethingreplaceable.Ididn’tevenknowifhewouldnoticeitwasmissing,butifhedid,Iwantedhimtoknowhowitfelt:tolookforsomethingandneverfindit.Towonderwhereitcouldhavepossiblygone,thesamewayIlookedintohiseyesandsearchedforthefeelingsformeIknewhenolongerhad.
Myeyesflickeracrosstherestoftheimage,takinginthecrowd.Irecognizesomeofthem:theonewiththeT-shirtandthemouseywomaninthefrontrow,tearsdripping.They’rewatchingmehungrily,likevulturesreadytopickatsomethingnotyetdead.Theflashfromthecamerahasdonesomethingstrangetotheireyes,makingthemlookevenmoreravenous.Makingthemglow.
Theylookliketheywanttodevourmewholeandlickthebloodfrommybones.
Istifleashudderandscrolldowntothecomments,therealmeatofthestory.Already,therearedozens.
Thatpoorwoman.Can’timagine.Hertalkwasgreat!
Let’snotactlikeshe’sdoingthisforanyreasonotherthanself-promotion.She’sawriter.Youknowthere’sabookdealcoming.
Shutup.Ihopeyourkidgetstakensoyouknowhowitfeels.
IsabelleDrakeisababykiller.Changemymind.
Islapmylaptopshut,andRoscoejumpsatthesound.ThenIpressmythumbsintomytemplesandexhale.
IsabelleDrakeisababykiller.
Iknowthesecommentsshouldn’tgettome;Iknowthey’rejustnoise.I’veexperiencedfirsthandthesickfascinationpeoplehavewithotherpeople’spain.Thewaytheyclingtoitlikestatic.Thewaytheyinterpreteverymoveasthewrongmove,asiftheycouldpossiblyknow.Asiftheycouldpossiblyknowwhatthey’ddoinmyshoes.Howtheywouldfeel.
ThemorningafterMasonwastaken,I’llneverforgetthewayourneighborspokedtheirnosesintoouryard,smellingastory.Theyhadseenthepolicecruisersinourdriveway,uniformedcopssnoopingaroundourhouse.Theyhadofferedtheircondolences—genuineconcern,atfirst—theirhairtousledandsleepstillstucktothecornersoftheireyesastheypushedawarmmugofcoffeeintomyhands,whisperingwordsofencouragementinmyear.Butastimewentby,theystartedtoretreat.Theydidn’tcomeintoouryardanymore;theystayedatarm’slength,watchingfromtheirporches,likesomeonehaderectedaninvisiblefencearoundourproperty.Liketheywereafraidthatiftheycametooclose,theviolencewouldcomeforthem,too.Consumetheirlifeasithadconsumedmine.Sotheyglaredasthepolicetapewascutaway;theywhisperednolongertome,butaboutme.Becauseatfirst,theyhadwantedtoassumethattherewasaninnocentexplanation:Hehadslippedoutinthemiddleofthenight,that’sall.Hewouldbefound,ofcoursehewould,somewhereintheneighborhood.Lostandconfusedbutentirelyunharmed.
Butafteroneday,twodays,aweek,amonth,itbecameharderandhardertoclingtoanykindofhope.Sowithoutsomeonetoblame,theydecidedtoblameme.
That’swhyit’ssohardtodothesetalks,knowingwhathalfoftheaudienceisthinking.Theireyesonme,scrutinizing.Waitingformetoslipup.TheythinkIkilledmybaby:anotherSusanSmithorCaseyAnthony,woefullyunmaternal.SomeofthemactuallythinkthatIdidit—thatIsmotheredhiminhissleep,maybe,fingerstwitchingafteronetoomanyrestlessnights—whileotherssimplysaythatIwasaskingforit.ThatIdidn’tdoenoughtokeephimsafe.
Eitherway,italwayscomesbacktome:themother.It’salwaysmyfault.
ItellmyselfIdon’tcare,thattheiropinionswon’tbringMasonback,butIwouldbelyingifalittlepartofme—somewhere,deepdown,thedebrisofself-preservationfloatingacrossthemurkydepthsofmysubconscious—wasn’ttryingtoprovesomethingtothem.Wasn’ttryingtoconvincethemthatIammaternal.Iamagoodmother.
OrmaybeI’mjusttryingtoconvincemyself.
Ilookupfromthetableandglanceoutthewindow,theafternoonstretchingaheadofmelikeaprisonsentence.I’mpracticallycountingdownthehoursuntilthesunsetsagain,themetaphoricalmarkingofthatgrimmilestonenofamilyofamissingchildeverwantstoreach.
Oneyear.
It’salmostthreeo’clocknow;Mason’svigilisdowntownatsix.BenandIplannedittogether,albeitforentirelydifferentreasons.Hewantedsomethingtoremember—Ican’tbringmyselftosaythewordmemorial,butthat’sreallywhatitis.Asforme,Iwantedsomethingtodrawacrowd.Likesittingonthedockwiththatstring,bobbingthebaitandwaitingforsomethingtobite.
Atrap,ofsorts.Likeleadingamothtoaflame.
Istandupfromthetable,pushingmychairbackwithascreechbeforewalkingintothekitchenandgrabbingmypurse.Idon’thaveitinmerightnow:siftingthroughthosenames,spendinganotherdaychasingghosts.Ican’tpassthenextthreehoursinthishouse,alone.Masoniseverywherehere:inthecloseddoorofhisnursery,theoneroominthishouseIrefusetostepinside.Inthechildlocksstillstrappedtothecabinetsandinhiscrayon-scribbleddrawingsstillstucktothefridge.
That’sthethingaboutamissingchild,thethingnobodytellsyou:Theyneverdie.Inaway,theirgonenessmakesthemimmortal—alwaysthere,justbarelyoutofview.Foreveraliveinyourmindexactlythewaytheywerewhentheyleftyou,materializingasthatsuddencoldspotwhenyouwalkdownthehallwayoratwirlingtendrilofsmokebeforeevaporatingintonothing,leavingbehindjustthefaintesttraceofwhatusedtobe.
“I’llbeback,”IwhispertoRoscoebeforeslingingmypurseovermyshoulderandmakingmywaytowardthedoor.ThenIstepoutsideandlockitbehindme,myeyesstinginginthesuddenbrightnessofoutside.
CHAPTEREIGHT
THEN
Wepaddownthestairs,Margaretcarefullyplacingbothfeetoneachstep.Left,thenright.Left,thenright.Iwalkwithherslowly,herfingerslacedinmine.
GoinganywherewithMargaretalwaystakesawhile;she’ssmall,afterall,andourhouseissobig.Threestorieswithwraparoundporchesoneverylevel.I’moldenoughtounderstandthatbigisarelativeterm,actually.Ireallyhavenowayofknowingifitisbig,comparativelyspeaking,sincethisistheonlyplaceI’veeverlived.TheonlyplaceI’veknown.Maybeeveryone’shouselookslikethis—solargethatIfindmyselfdiscoveringnewnooksandcranniesduringeverygameofhide-and-seek,nomatterhowmanytimeswe’veplayed;sooldthatthecreaksandpopsandsnapsofthewoodhavebecomelikeafamilymembertome,frighteningyetfamiliar—butIdon’tthinkso.Icanseethewaypeoplestareastheywalkpast,camerasslunglowaroundtheirnecksastheygripthewrought-ironfence,tryingtosneakapeekthroughthebars.Iwatchthemreadtheweatheredbronzeplaqueboltedtothebrickcolumns,theinscriptionprovidingalittlebitofbackgroundonourhome.I’vereaditsomanytimesmyselfthatIhaveitmemorizednow,recitingitoutloudlikeI’musheringpretendvisitorsthroughagalleryexhibit.ButI’llneverforgetthefirsttime,thewaymyfingersmovedacrossthecoldmetalasifIwerereadingbraille.
“Builtin1840,theHayworthMansionwasabandonedyearslaterduringtheGreatSke-ske-skedee—”
“Skedaddle,”Dadhadsaid,smiling.“TheGreatSkedaddle.”
“TheGreatSkedaddle.”
Ihadneverheardthatwordbefore,skedaddle,butIlikedit.Ilikedthewayitmademytonguefeel,likeitwasdancing.Inlearningtoread,Iwasalsolearningtofallinlovewithwords;Ilikedhoweachonewasdifferent,unique,likeafingerprint.Howsomehissedthroughmyteethwhileothersrolledoffmylips,slipperylikeoil,andothersclackedagainsttheroofofmymouthlikeaverbalgumsmack.
Eachnewwordwasanewexperience,anewsound.Anewfeeling.Andeachcombinationledtoanewstorytoread,anewworldtodiscover.
“ConvertedintoahospitalbyUnionsoldiers,”Icontinued,“themansionwaslaterrenovatedduringthe—”
Iglancedatmydad,eyebrowsraised.
“ReconstructionEra,”hesaid.
“ReconstructionEra.”
Afterthatday,Istartedtolookatourhomeinawholenewlight.Itwasn’tjustourhomeanymore;somehow,itseemedtobelongtobotheveryoneandnoone,likewewerelivinginsidemysister’sdollhouse,anidenticalpillaredmansionMomhadgiftedherforChristmas,ourfamilynothingmorethanthecollectionofplushfabricdollssomeinvisiblehandusheredfromroomtoroom,actingoutascene.
Ithoughtofthepryingeyesofthetourists,theirfingerswrappedtightlyaroundourtorsos,playingwithus.Makingusdance.
Itriedtoimagineourgroundfloor,themainfloor,grandpianoandtuftedcouchesreplacedwithrolloutcotsandbloodiedmen,theirheadswrappedingauzebandages.Ihadaskedmymotheronceifanyofthosesoldiershaddied—andifso,whereweretheyburied?Shehadjustshrugged,toldmethattheyprobablyhad,andthenglancedoutthewindowandintoourbackyard,eyesglassyandgray.Nowthegroundfloorhousesourmostimportantrooms:ourfoyer,kitchen,livingroom,mudroom,diningroom,andDad’soffice,whichisstrictlyoff-limits.Themiddlefloorisourfloor—alonghallwayofbedrooms,mostofwhichareempty—andthethirdfloorisMom’sstudio,agiantopenroomwithfloor-to-ceilingwindowsandFrenchdoorsthatswingoutontothepatio.Shekeepshereaselupthere;herpaintssmearedacrossanoldwoodentable,herbrushessoakingincloudywaterlinedupagainstthewall.It’smyfavoritefloorofthehousebecauseoftheviews.
Sometimes,afterdinner,weallgouptheretogetherandcurlupinblanketsonthebalconyfloortowatchthesunset,asaltybreezemakingtheairsticktoourskin.
“CanwehaveFrenchtoast?”
WehitthelandingandMargaretunfurlsherfingersbeforescamperingintothekitchen.Herlimbsaresoskinny,herskinsotan,shelookslikeafawndartingfromabullet.
“Idon’tknowhowtomakeFrenchtoast,”Isay,followingbehindher.“Howaboutanomelet?”
“I’msickofomelets,”shesays,pullingoutachairwithascreech.Sheclambersontopofit,pullsherlegstoherchest,andgrabsthebabydollDadbroughthomeforherafterhislastbusinesstrip.Shecarriesiteverywherenow,thoseporcelaineyes,foreverunblinking,trailingusaroundthehouse.
“I’llputcheeseinit,”Isay,openingthefridgeandstackingeverythingontothecountertop:abrowncartonofeggs,shreddedcheddar,milk,chives.Icracktheeggsintoabowlandstarttowhiskwithafork,tossingintheotheringredientswhileMargaretcradlesherdoll,singinginthebackground.
“Hushlittlebaby,don’tsayaword.Mama’sgonnabuyyouamockingbird.”
Ilightthestoveandstarttostir,theskillethissingandthekitchenstartingtofillwiththescentofsaltandherbsasIpourthecreamymixtureontothehotsurface,battingawaythesteam.Ialmostdon’thearthesoftapproachoffootstepspaddingacrossthelanding,thecreakofthefloorboardsasaninvisibleweightshiftsawayfromthehallandintothekitchen.Thearrivalofanewvoice,lightandsweetlikefrothedmilk.
“Mydarlings.”
Iturnaroundandtakeinthesightofmymotherleaningagainstthekitchendoorframe,watchingus.Shelookslikeanangelinherwhiterobe,thegauzymaterialdelicateandthin.Icanseetheoutlineofherlegsandhips;thegentleslopeofherstomachasshewalksacrossthewindows,lightshiningthrough
“Youtwoaregettingsogrown,”shesays,openingthewindowstoletinabreezebeforestridingovertothetableandtakingaseatnexttoMargaret.Sherestsherheadinherhand,herhairamessofthick,browncurlscascadingoverhershoulders,andIcanseedriedremnantsofthealways-therepaintpeekingoutfrombehindthesleeveofherrobe:royalblueandemeraldgreenandbloodred.Arainbowofbirthmarksthatneverreallyleave.“Iwishyoucouldstaymybabiesforever.”
SheputsherhandonMargaret’scheek,rubbingherskinwiththebackofherthumb,andsmiles,lookingatusinadreamykindofbewilderment.Likeshealmostcan’tbelievewe’rereal.
“Haveyounamedheryet?”sheasks,gesturingtoMargaret’sdoll,herfingersabsentmindedlytwistingthroughherhair.
“Ellie,”Margaretsays,tiltingherhead.“LikeEloise.”
Momisstill,quiet,herfingersstuckinthestrands.
“Eloise,”sherepeats.
ThenMargaretsmiles,nods,andthesilenceisbrokenagainbyherlullaby—“Andifthatmockingbirddon’tsing,Mama’sgonnabuyyouadiamondring”—followedbyaburstofmymother’slaughter,high-pitchedandfragile,likeshatteringglass.
CHAPTERNINE
NOW
Ihopintomycaranddrivedowntown,glidingintoaparkingspotalongChippewaSquare.TheearlyMarchairiscrispandclean,andIdecidetostrollwithoutdirectionuntilthevigilstarts,walkingpastthefragrantazaleagardensandatarnishedbrassstatueofGeneralJamesOglethorpelookingdownonusall.Walkingthesquaresalwaysgivesmeasenseofpeace,asenseofcalm,whichIknowI’llneedtonight.Eventually,IfindmyselfonAbercorn,ontheoutskirtsofColonialParkCemetery,staringthroughthegiantstonearchwaytoppedwiththatbigbronzebird.
Thereareovertenthousandheadstonesinthatcemetery,auselesspieceoftriviaIlearnedonmyfirstdayatTheGrit.Ilooktotheleft—theoffice,myoldoffice,isonlyafewblocksnorth,closertotheriver.Iusedtobeabletoseeiteveryday:theSavannahRiver,windinginthedistancethroughthosegorgeousfloor-to-ceilingwindowsasIsatatmydesk,tappingoutarticles.
“Doyoubelieveinghosts?”
IrememberlookingupatKasey,mytourguideandmentor.Shewasalifestylereporter,too,twoyearsmyseniorandtaskedwithgreetingmeatthefrontdooronmyfirstdayofwork.Irememberthinkingeverythingaboutherwasperfectthatday,thesurrealismofmydreamcometruepaintingeverythinginawarm,whiteglow:herblondringletcurlsandthewayhertalonfingernailstappedagainstaglasscoffeemugfilledwithalattedispensedfromtheofficecoffeemaker.Itriedtokeepupwithherheelsclickingagainstthefloor,arestoredhardwood,asshegavemetheofficialtour.
“Sorry,what?”
“Ghosts,”sherepeated.“Savannahissupposedtobehaunted.ThemosthauntedcityinAmerica,infact.Eventhisverybuildinghasaghoststoryortwo.”
Ilookedaround,themodernofficelookingtheexactoppositeofahauntedhouse.
“Sometimes,peoplesaytheycanfeelacoldlittleshivergodownthebackoftheirspinewhenthey’rethelastonetoleaveatnight.”
“Oh.”Ilaughed,unsureifshewaskidding.Judgingbyherexpression,shewasn’t.“No,actually.Idon’tthinkIdo.”
Andthatwasthetruth,sortof.Ididn’tbelieveinghosts—notthetraditionalkind,anyway,thekindtheyshowinthemovies—butmymotherusedtotellusstoriesaboutsomethingelse,somethinghardertoexplain.Sheusedtotellusthatallthoselittleexperiencesyoucouldneverputyourfingeron—atickleonthebackofyourneck,anaggingfeelingthatyouwereforgettingsomething,thatcreepingsenseofdéjàvuthatflaredupwhenyouvisitedsomeplacenew—wereothersoulstryingtosendyouamessage.Livingordead,itdidn’tmatter.Justothersouls.Ineverthoughtofitasbeinghaunted,exactly.Justgentlyreminded.Apeacefulproddingthattherewassomethingthatneededtoberemembered.Somethingimportant.MargaretandIusedtotryitsometimes,squeezingoureyesshutandattemptingtowilleachothertosneakintotheother’sbedroomatnightorgrabacookieoutofthekitchenpantry.
IusedtoimaginemythoughtsguidingherhandliketheplanchetteofaOuijaboard;herlittlebodybeingpulledthroughthehousebyaninvisiblestringwithmeontheotherend,tuggingitgently.Itneverworked.
“Well,you’reaboutto.”Kaseygrinned.“OutthatwindowisColonialParkCemetery.Hometoovertenthousandheadstones,butthat’snoteventhecreepiestpart.YouknowAbercornStreet,thesidewalkyouwalkdowntogettoOglethorpe?”
Inodded,tuckingaroguestrandofhairbehindmyearandlettingmyfingertipsrestonthatfamiliarpatchofskin.
“That’stechnicallyapartofthecemetery,too,eventhoughitisn’tgated.Therearebodiesburiedbeneaththesidewalk,thestreet—hundredsofbodies—thatpeoplejustwalkovereverysingleday.”
Iglancedoutthewindowagain,rememberingmycommutetowork.Walkingoverthoseverysidewalks.Ididn’tliketothinkaboutit.
“Overhereistheartdepartment,”shecontinued,achangeintopicsoabruptIfeltabitofwhiplash.IlookedataclusterofdeskshousinggiantMaccomputersandgraphicdesigners.Theywavedatmemeekly;Iwavedback.“Onthissideoftheoffice,wehaveoureditorialteam—which,ofcourse,includesyou!”
Irememberlookingatmydesk,imaginingallthepeopleIwouldmeetandworldsIwouldexplore.DreamingupallthestoriesIwouldgettotell;storiesthatsoperfectlyencapsulateanentirewayoflifethat’ssofamiliartosomebutsoforeigntoothers,likewheretofindthebestqualitybirdknivesoralong-formfeatureonaLouisianashrimperfamilywhosuppliesseafoodupanddowntheEastCoast.Directionsonhowtomakeacrawfishétoufféorsetatabletheproperway;theevolutionofcountrymusicandthewell-keptsecretofaperfectlytarttomatopie.
Theofficewasamazing,truly.EverythingIhadhopeditwouldbe.Eventhename,tome,wasperfect—TheGrit—becausetherewasadoublemeaningtoitthatrangsotrue.Therewasthenodtoshrimpandgrits,ofcourse,thatcreamy,decadent,indulgentSouthernstaple.Buttherewasalsotheothernoun,grit,theonethatseemedtohissthroughtheteeth.Adirtytypeofdeterminationthatremindedmeofcanefarmersandfishermenandtoilingawayinthehotsummersun;thestingofasunburnonyourneckandcallousedhandsanddiggingoutdirtfrombeneathyourfingernailsbeforegoinghomeandsittinginfrontoftheairconditionerwithasweetteainhand.Apebbleinyourshoeorastickerchafingagainstyourheel;theremnantsofsandcoatingyourtongueafterpryingopenanoysterandswallowingitwhole.
Itwastheeffortlessblendingofthosetwocompletelydifferentthingsintooneperfectword.Acontradiction,ofsorts.Butonethatmadesense.
Tobehonest,itremindedmeofme
IdecidetowalktowardLafayettenow,puttingsomedistancebetweenmyselfandthatmemory.Idon’tgetwithinablockofmyoldofficeanymore.Ididn’tknowitatthetime,butmycareeratTheGritwasoverbeforeiteverhadthechancetostart.It’shardtosaythatIregretthem,mychoices,becauseIdon’t.ButwhenI’mdownhere,juststepsawayfromwheremyoldlifewasstartingtobegin,it’shardnottothinkabouthowdifferentitallcouldhavebeen.
HowmuchIwasforcedtogiveup.
Iapproachtheoutskirtsofthesquareandnoticeafainttwinkleinthedimmingdaylight:asmallcrowdholdingteacandleshasalreadybeguntogather,andtheyremindmeoffirefliesinthesummertime,thewaytheyflickerthroughthetanglesofSpanishmossinthetrees.Othersareholdingflowers,placingthemgentlyagainstagreenfountainlitfromtheinside.SomeonehasplacedapictureofMasoninthecenterofitall,hisemeraldeyeslargeandunblinking.
“Mrs.Drake.”
Itwistaroundatthesoundofmyname,alreadyknowingwhoI’llfind.DetectiveDozieriswalkingupbehindme,twothickthumbshookedthroughhisbeltloops.IrememberthinkinghewasanintimidatingfigureinMarchoflastyear—tallandmuscular,withoneofthosethickhandlebarmustachesI’vealwaysimaginedmenonlygrowtoprovetoothermentheycan.
“Detective.”Inodinhisdirectionasheapproachesme.Hedoesn’tbothertoremovehishandforahandshake,soIdon’tinitiateone,either.
“Wantedtoletyouknowwe’llhaveafewundercoversheretonight,”hesays,glancingaroundthesquare.Afewmorepeoplehavetrickledin,quietlymakingtheirwaytothefountain.“Watchingthecrowd.”
“Thankyou.”
Ilookatthedetective,thetendonsinhisneckstrainingashetwistshisheadtoscanthegroup.Thismanusedtoscareme—thewayhestood,hovering,hisweightylimbsforarmshangingdeadbyhisside;thewayhestared,unblinking,orspokewithnoemotion,soyouneverreallyknewwhatwasonhismind.Butintime,acertainnumbnesshasstartedtocreepineverytimewe’retogether,likealethalinjectionoflidocaineslowlyspreadingthroughmyveins.Ilookathimnow,andInolongerfeelfearorhopeorgratitudeoranger.Ijustfeel…nothing.Nothingatall.
Maybeit’sbecauseI’vewatchedhimfailtoomanytimes.
“Iwouldadviseyounottodoanythingimpulsive,”hesaystomenow,hiseyesstillonthecrowd.Thenhisneckslowlytwistssohe’sbacktostaringatmeagain,remindingmeofallthetimesheinterrogatedmeatthestation.Grillingme,hard,overandoverandoveragain.Askingtheexactsamequestions,wordedinslightlydifferentways;makingmerepeatmystatementashestudiedmyfa?adeforcracks.
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask,althoughIalreadyknow.
Hestaresatmeabeatlonger,ignoringmyquestion.“Iheardaboutyourperformancelastnight.”
Performance.
“I’llhavesomenamesforyoushortly,”Isay,althoughIknowthat’snotwhyhebroughtitup.“Thislistislongerthantheothers.It’lltakesometimetosiftthrough.”
“Mrs.Drake,youarelookingforaneedleinahaystack.Weareworkingonit.Letusdoourjobs.”
“WillyoulookintothenamesifIsendthemtoyou?”
“We’lllookintothem,”hesays.“ButlikeI’vesaidmanytimesbefore,it’sawasteofourtime.Youcouldbepullingresourcesawayfromworkinganotherangle.AndI’msureyoudon’twantthat,now,doyou?”
“Ofcoursenot,”Isay.“Doyouhaveanotherangle?Becauseifso,I’dlovetohearit.”
He’squiet,butIcanseethemusclesinhisjawtense.Hedoesn’tanswer,whichtellsmeeverythingIneedtoknow
Hiseyesflutterawayfrommineandovermyshoulder,backtothegrowingcrowdgatheringbehindme.Thenheexhales,digginghisthumbsbackintohisbeltloops.
“Yourhusband’shere,”hesaysatlast,turningaroundandwalkingtowardaclusteroftrees.“I’llbeinthebackifyouneedme.”
CHAPTERTEN
ThefirstthingInoticeaboutBenishisweddingring.It’ssnugaroundhisfinger,thewayitalwaysiswhenwefindourselvesinpublic.Itwasn’tthereearlierwhenheshoweduponmydoorstep.IknowbecauseIchecked.
Hewalksovertomenow,hisarmsoutstretched,andgivesmeahug,buryinghisnoseintomycollar.Icanfeelhisotherringaroundmyneckpushdeepintomychest,andIinhale,smellingthosefamiliarsmells:hiscologneupclose,thespearmintofhismouthwash,thespicedcloveofhisaftershavethathealwaysdabsonwithtooheavyahand.ButwhatI’mreallylookingforissomethingelse,somethingdifferent.
I’mlookingfortracesofher
“Areyourparentshere?”Benasksashepullsback.Iwatchhimglancearoundthesquare,lookingfortheirfaceshiddensomewhereinthecrowd,butIshakemyhead.
“No,theycouldn’tmakeit.”
Notthetruth,really.Butnotexactlyalie,either.
“Let’sgoaheadandgetstarted,then.It’sabouttime.”
Inod,lookingbackatthefountain.Thesunhassetbeneaththetreesnow,andthewaterseemstobeglowing,tricklingoverthemetalliplikemoltensilver.Itremindsmeofthemarshinmyparent’sbackyard;thewaythemoonlightmakesitglistenlikeapaneofsmoothglass.
Ishiver,whetherfromthesuddenchillintheairortherushofmemories,Ican’tbesure.
Bengrabsmyhand,andweslowlywalktothefront.Peoplestepaside,makingroom—toomuchroom—likewegiveoffsomekindofaura,amagneticfieldthatforceseverythingelseaway.Whenwereachtheheadofthesquare,Iturnaround.Justlikelastnight,standingonstageinthatauditorium,Ifeelthegazeofeyesonmyskin.
ScrutinizingmeasIscrutinizethem.
“Thankyouallforcoming,”Bensays,hisvoicetheperfectswirlofgratitudeandgrief.“Asyouallknow,tonightmarksoneyearsinceourMasonwastaken.”
Thecrowdhasgrownfairlylargebynow.Therearesomestragglersontheoutsideofthecircle;curioustourists,maybe,orpeopletoouncomfortabletogettooclose.Irecognizeafewfaces—oldcoworkers,neighbors.Mason’sday-careteacherisattheveryfront,tearsinhereyes.Mostpeopleareholdingcandlesorcellphones,littledotsoflightdancingintheair,andIwatchasayounggirlwalksself-consciouslytowardthefountainandplacesastuffeddinosauronthegroundlikesomekindofritualsacrifice.
“We’renowgoingtoholdamomentofsilence,”Bencontinues,bowinghishead.“WeaskthatyouusethistimetoliftMasonupinprayer.Itisourhopethatwhereverheis,heknowsheisloved,andthathe’llbebroughtbacktoussoon.”
Ihearafewsniffleserupt;thestrangledchokesofthesentimentalonestryingtostifletheirsobs.Everyone’seyesareonthegroundnow,butminestaystraightahead.Iwanttomemorizethiscrowd.Iwanttoseewhostandsout—anunlikelyface,maybe,oratotalstrangerwhoseemsoutofplace.Iseeaflashofmovementintheback,somethingsquarelyonDetectiveDozier’s,watchingmefromtheback.Hiseyesburrowingintomyskulllikeawarning.
It’sdarkafterthevigilisover,thecenterofthesquareoverflowingwithflowersandmeltingcandlesandtinylittletoysthatwillbesnatchedupbythegarbagecollectorsassoonasweleave.I’mstillnotreadytogohomeyet,notreadytofacethesilenceofmyhouseandanotherlong,lonelystretchofnight,soIstayinthesquareforalittlebitlonger,sittingonthewrought-ironbenchoverlookingthefountain.
“Isabelle?”
Itwisttothesideatthesoundofmyname,takinginthefamiliarfaceofmypast.Shelooksmostlythesame,thoughit’sbeenyearssinceI’veseenher,herlong,ringletcurlsnowclippedtohershoulders,theirformerlyblondcolornowmoreofanatural,burntbrown
“Hey,Kasey.”
“OhmyGod,”shesays,hereyesbulgingatthesightofmebeforesherecoversquickly.“Howareyou?”
It’sstrangesometimes,seeingmyselfthroughtheeyesofthepeoplewhoknowme.Inthemirror,mytransformationhasbeengradual—adailywitheringaway,likeaslowstarvationoradecayingbody—buttothem,Icanseetheshockofitatonce,likeaswiftslaptotheface.
“Oh,youknow.”Ismile,notbotheringwitharealanswer.
Herexpressionshiftsagain,likeshe’ssuddenlyrememberedwhoIam,whatI’vebeenthrough.Shetriesonemoretime,tiltingherheadanddroppinghervoicetoawhisperasshetakesaseatbesideme,herhandonmyknee.
“Howareyouholdingup?”
Thegestureisunexpected,catchingmeoffguard.Ilookdownatherhand,thenbackatherface.
“Aswellascanbeexpected,Ithink.”
“Weallmissyou,”shesaysatlast.“Somuch.”
Ibitemycheek,tryingtostifleagrimace,becauseIknowthat’snottrue.Iknowwhattheyallthinkofme.
“It’sbeensevenyears,”Isayinstead,turningtofaceher.“I’msureyou’vemovedon.”
“God,thatlong?”sheasks.“Timeflies,doesn’tit?”
“Itsuredoes.”
“Doyouwanttograbadrinkorsomething?”sheasks,hervoiceperkingup.“IwasjustonmywaytoSkyHightomeetsomeofthecrew.”
Ibitemylip,rememberingthatrestauranteveryonewenttoafterlatenightsattheoffice.Ihaven’tsteppedfootinthatplacesincethelasttimeKaseyandIweretheretogether,atTheGrit’sannualChristmasparty,onlytwomonthsintomyemployment.
“Nottonight,”Isay,smiling.“Thanks,though.”
“Okay,”shesays,standingupslowly.Shelooksdownatme,herfaceamixtureofpityandconcern.“Letmeknowifyouchangeyourmind.It’sanopeninvitation.”
Iwatchasshewalksaway,herhandsstuffedintothepocketsofhercoat.Whenshereachestheedgeofthesquare,Iwatchasshestops,likeshe’stryingtodecideifsheshouldturnbackaround.
Finally,shedoes,hereyesfindingmineinthedark.
“Youdon’thavetodothisalone,youknow.It’sokaytoaskforhelp.”
Somethingabouthervoicemakesmefeellikeshe’swantedtosaythatforalong,longtime.Likeshe’sthoughtaboutit,churneditaroundinhermind,onlytolosehernerveandfileitawayforsomeother,farawaytime.Idon’texactlyknowhowtorespondtothat,soinsteadIjustnodandwatchasshesmilesatmeagain,somethingsadandresigned,beforeturningbackaround,herheelsstillclickingasshemakesherwayacrossthestreet.
CHAPTERELEVEN
There’sacoldchillintheairnow,asharpbitethatcausesmetostandupandwalkintothecathedralacrossthestreet,atoweringbasilicajustpastthesquarewithtwinpointedarchesthatseemtojutstraightintothestars.I’veneverbeenreligious—evenlesssonow—butitseemslikeagoodplacetogoatthemoment.Agoodplacetositandthink.Toformulateaplan.
It’sclosetoemptyinside,afewpeoplesitting,praying,orwanderingaroundtheaisleswiththeirneckscranedtotheceiling.IcanheartheechooffootstepsaroundmeasItakeaseatintheback,theoldwoodenpewgroaningagainstmyweight.
ThenIexhale,closemyeyes.
IcanstillremembertrailingKaseyaroundtheofficethatveryfirsttime,myeyesglassyandbright.Takinginthebelongingssituatedontopofmydesk—mydesk—andmyname,ISABELLERHETT:LIFESTYLEREPORTER,etchedontotheshinygoldnameplate.
“Andhere,”shehadsaid,openinganofficedoorwithagustofbravadoaswereachedthepinnacleofhertour,“isthemanwehavetothankforitall.”
Ihadpokedmyheadintotheeditorinchief’soffice,readytointroducemyself,whenthebloodsuddenlydrainedfrommyface.
Itwashim.
Infrontofme,themanfromthebarwassittingbehindagiantmahoganydesk.Hesmiledatme,aplayfulkindofgrin,likehewasthebigrevealonsomekindofgameshow,onlyIcouldn’ttellifIhadwonorlost.
“Welcome,Isabelle.”
Icouldfeelaburninginmycheeks,knowingmyfacewasquicklymorphingintoadeepcrimsonred,justlikeithadafterwecollidedintoeachotherthatnightonthewater.Foramoment,Iforgothowtospeak.Ihadlostmyvoice—itwasstuck,lodgedsomewheredeepinmythroatlikeachunkofstalebread—althoughhisvoicewassmoothandfamiliar,flowingeasilyfromhislipslikedecantedwine
“Hi,”Ifinallymanagedtosay.Irememberlookingdownatthenameplateonhisdesk,hisname—BENJAMINDRAKE—embossedingold.Ihadknownthatwastheeditorinchief’sname,ofcourse;itwaswrittenatthetopofeverymasthead.ButhehadintroducedhimselfasBen.Themostcommonnameintheworld.Ihadneverseenapictureofhimbefore,andofcourseIhadn’tinterviewedwiththeeditorinchiefforanentry-levelposition.Ihadnowaytorecognizehisvoice.“Thankyousomuchforthisopportunity.”
“Ofcourse.”Hesmiled.Ilookeddownathishandsfoldedonhisdesk;atthegoldweddingbandstretchedtightacrosshisfinger.TheweddingbandIcouldn’tseewhenhewaswearinggloves.“Kasey,ifyou’llgiveusasecond.”
Kaseysmiledbesideme,slippingbackthroughthedoorandclosingitwithaclick.Oncewewerealone,thatnightcamerushingbacktomeinaflash:ourbodiespushedtogetherclose,talkingforwhatfeltlikehours.HisfacewhenIhadtoldhimIwasawriterforTheGrit—andme,justassuminghewasimpressed.Butthatwasn’ttherightexpression,Ifinallyunderstood.Itwasshock,maybe.ArealizationthathehadjustfoundhimselfspendingthebetterpartofaFridayeveningchattingupnotonlyhisnewcoworker,buthisnewemployee.Atwenty-five-year-oldsubordinate.
Andthen,ofcourse,therewasthatkiss.ThewayIhadpushedmyselfuponmytoesandleanedin;thewayIhadcuppedhischeekinmyhandbeforetakingofftothebathroom;comingbackoutandrealizingthathewasgone.Walkinghomealone,embarrassedandconfusedandalittletoobuzzed,replayingthenightoverandoverandoverinmymind,tryingtounearthamissedsignaloranoverlookedsign.
“Ilovedit,bytheway.”
Iblinked,tryingtofindthewords.Hewasstaringrightatme,talkingtome,andstill,allIcouldthinkaboutwasthatkiss.Certainly,hewasn’tbringingthatuprightnow…washe?
“I’m—I’msorry?”
“Yourarticle,”heclarified.“Theoneyouattachedwithyourapplication.Ireadthewholething.”
“Oh,”Iexhaled.“Oh,right.Thankyou.”
ApplyingforTheGritrequiredaheftyportfolioofpreviouslypublishedbylines,butbeingonlyafewyearsoutofcollege,Ididn’thavemanytoshare.Instead,IattachedastoryIhadwrittenonmyownaboutadolphinthathadbeenseenlingeringaroundtheBeaufortharborforlongerthannormal;youcouldtellitwasthesameonebecauseofthelittlebitemarkonherdorsalfin.Ihadwantedtoknowwhatitwasdoingthere—dayafterday,swimmingincircles—soIaskedthedockhandatthemarina.
“She’sgrieving,”hehadtoldme.
“Grievingwhat?”
“Hercalf.”
Imusthavelookedconfused,notebookinhand,becausetheoldmanflungagreasytoweloverhisshoulderandkepttalking.
“Dolphinsarecomplexcreatures,darlin’.Theyhaveemotions,likeyouandme.Thatonetherejustlostanewbornacoupleweeksago.Ifyoulookclose,youcanseeherpushin’itaround.”
“Pushingwhataround?”
“Hercalf,”hesaidagain.“Herbaby.”
Iremembersquintingthen,strainingmyeyesagainsttheglareofthesun.Andhewasright:Therewasn’tjustonedolphininthedistance,thereweretwoOnewasalive,andone,muchsmaller,wasdead.
“Howlongisshegoingtodothat?”
Ifeltapeculiarmixofemotionsinthatmoment:sympathy,yes,butalsoasenseofdisgustatthisanimalpushingaroundthecorpseofherdeadbaby,bloatedandbobbinglikesomekindofgruesomepoolfloat.ItremindedmeofarecentstoryIhadseeninthenewsaboutamotherwhokeptherstillborninthefreezer,nestledamongthevegetables.
“Aslongasittakes,”heresponded.“Aslongasittakestogrieve.”
“Thatseemslikeastrangewaytogrieve.”
“Nothin’aboutgriefmakessense.”Heshookhishead.“Notforanyofus.”
Ilaterlearnedthroughmyinterviewsthatnobodyknewhowthecalfhaddied.Sometimesithappensinchildbirth,theyexplained,sometimesrightafter.Andsometimes,maledolphinsengageinabehaviorcalledcalftossing,wheretheybashababytodeathinordertofreeupthemotherfortheirownsexualneeds—althoughthatdetailIleftout.Thatwasn’tthestoryIwantedtotell.
Butstill,therewassomethingsomagneticallymacabreaboutitall.Aboutthesecreatures,sobeautifulandserene,havingadarkerside.Aviolentside.
“Excuseme.”
Ifeelataponmyarmnow,makingmejump.Myneckjerksaround,andmyeyesadjusttofindanoldwomanstandingbehindme,herleatheryarmoutstretchedasithoversovermyshoulder.
“Thecathedralisclosinginfiveminutes.”
“Oh,”Isay,thebeatingofmyheartstartingtoslow.Ilookaround,realizingtheplaceiscompletelyemptynow.Thatthepeopleperusingtheaisleshavelongsinceleft,andI’vestillbeensittinghere,oblivious.Totallyalone.“I’msorry…whattimeisit?Iwasjustlookingforaplacetosit—”
“It’sfine,”shesays,hereyeswearybutkind.Shemustseethepanickedconfusioninmyface—thewayI’mglancingaround,lookingforanyindicationofhowmuchtimehaspassed—becausesheplacesherhandonmyarmnow,squeezinggently.“There’sagroupthatmeetsonMondaynights,ifyou’reinterested.”
“Agroup?”
“Griefcounseling,”shesays.“Aroundback.You’llseeasignoutsidetheservicedoor.”
“Oh,no—”Istart,reachingformypurse.Butsuddenly,IrememberKasey’seyesfindingmineinthedark.Hervoice,gentleandlow.
“Youdon’thavetodothisalone,youknow.It’sokaytoaskforhelp.”
“Youdon’thavetosayanything,”thewomansays,winking,sensingmyhesitation.“Youcanjustsit.”
Icollectmythingsandstepbackintothebrisknightair,walkingaroundthesideofthebuilding.Thesquareiseerilyemptynow,stillexceptforthefaintflickeroftheremainingcandlesnotyetblownoutbythewind,andonceIreachthebackofthechurch,Ifindanopenservicedoor,cheapfluorescentlightleakingoutontothesidewalk.
Ipokemyheadinside,thesmellofbittercoffeeprickingatmysenses.
“Welcome.”
Iturntotheside,takinginthewomanbeforeme.Shelooksyoung,inherlatetwenties,witholiveskinandglossybrownhairpinnedbackatthesides.Hereyesarelarge—domineering,almost—andwhenshesmiles,twodimplesemergeonhercheeks,slitslikegashesdeepenoughtoscar.
“I’mValerie,”shesays,extendingherhand.Ittakesasecond,butslowly,herexpressionshifts,thedimplesdisappearingashersmilefades.
Sherecognizesme.Ofcourseshedoes.
“Isabelle,”Isay,eventhoughIneednointroduction.
Ipeekfartherintotheroom,noticingthemetalchairsarrangedinacircleandthefoldingtablesetupintheback.Therearecarafesofcoffee,rowsofpastries,allofthestereotypicallysadthingsyou’dexpecttofindataplacelikethis.
“Isawthecandles,”thewomansays,gesturingtotheopendoor.“Itlookedveryniceoutthere.”
“Thankyou.”
“Areyoujoiningustonight?”
Ihesitate,glancingbackatthechairs,butallIcanseearethechairsinthatauditorium.Allofthoseglowingeyes,staring.Judging.
“No,”Isayatlast,shakingmyhead.“Iwasjustcurious,Iguess.”
Thewomansmiles,aknowinglookinhereyes.Sheopenshermouth,readytospeakagain,whenwe’reinterruptedbyanoisebehindme.Iswingaround,myeyeslandingonanoldergentlemanwho’sjustshuffledthroughtheopendoor.Helooksapologeticforinterruptingus,gesturingmeeklytothecircleofchairsbeforewalkingtowardthemandtakingaseat.Thesmellofcigarettesmokefollowsclosebehindhim,mixedwiththesicklysweetscentofbrownliquor.
“Sorry,”Isay,feelingsuddenlyembarrassed,thoughI’mnotevensurewhy.Maybejustforshowinguphere,inthisvulnerableplace.“Ishouldprobablygo.”
“You’rewelcometojoinusanytime,”thewomansays.“We’rehereeveryMonday.Eighto’clock.”
Ismileandnod,flashingagratefulwavebeforesteppingoutsideandwalkingbacktowardmycar.I’mdiggingmyhandaroundinmypursenow,feelingformykeys,whenmyfingerswraparoundsomethingthinandhard,likeanotecard.Abusinesscard.Ipullitout,myfingertipsrunningacrossthenameembossedonthick,blackpaper.
WaylonSpencer.
Suddenly,Irememberthatmanontheplane.Thatwasonlyyesterday,thewayhehadlookedatmeandofferedhishelp.Itfeltalittleslimythen—opportunistic,rightontheheelsofthatconference—buthiswordsareringingloudlyinmyearnow,atemptingpull.
“Withapodcast,youwouldn’thavetotalktoallthosepeople.Notdirectly,anyway.You’djusthavetotalktome.”
Ikeepwalkingtowardmycar,mymindonallthepeopleinmylifewhotakeituponthemselvestodissectmyeverymove:Ben,DetectiveDozier.Thejudgingeyesoftheaudiencememberswhosenamesnowsitonmydiningroomtable,tauntingmeevenmore.
Itwouldbenice,Ithink.Nothavingtoconvinceallthesepeopleofmyinnocence,mypain.Onlyhavingtoconvinceone.
IlookatWaylon’sbusinesscard,scanninghisinformation.ThenIpullmyphoneoutofmypocket,beforeIcanthinktwice,andnavigatetomyInbox,launchinganewemailandbeginningtotype
CHAPTERTWELVE
THEN
Theairhasagelatinousqualitytoittoday,sluggishandwet.Itremindsmeofgravydrippingfromaservingspoon,concentratedandthick,poolingintovariouscreasesandsettlingthere.Turningeverythingdamp.
MargaretandIareoutsidebythewater,thethinfabricofournightgownsstickingtoourskinwithsweat.We’resittingonthegrass,pretzel-style,tryingtosavorthelittlegustsofwindthatoccasionallyfindtheirwaytousthroughthetrees.It’susuallybreezyouthere,butrightnowit’spainfullystill,likeeventhecloudsareholdingtheirbreath.
“Tea?”
Ilookupatmysister,myeyesadjustingtothesuddenbrightnessoftheskyaboveus.She’sarrangedthegardenstatuesinasemicircle,aplasticteacupplacedbeforeeachone.We’reapeculiarparty,Ihavetosay,MargaretandI,withourhumidity-soakedhair,crimpedandwild,andourmatchingwhitenightgowns.Necksitchywithribbonsandlace.We’retwoyearsapart,butMomstilldressesusincoordinatingoutfits,evenwhenwe’resleeping.Likewecomeinaset:life-sizednestingdolls.
Iimagineopeningmyselfupatthestomach,placingMargaretsnuglyinside.Itfeelslikethatsometimes.Likeshe’sminetoprotect.Likewithouther,I’mhollow.
Iglanceatthestatues:afrogplayingtheukulele,ababywithwings.There’sawomandirectlyacrossfromme,biggerthantheothers,hermouthhangingopenandherstoneeyeslookingdirectlyintomine.Sheusedtobeafountain,Ithink,butshehasn’tbeenhookedupinages.Instead,there’ssomekindofblackalgaetricklingoutofhermouth.Mygazefollowsasitcascadesdownherchin,herneck.Italmostlookslikeshe’spossessed.
“Ma’am?”
IlookbackatMargaret.She’sholdingoutapitcher,hereyesdartingbackandforthbetweenmeandthecupandsaucershe’splacedinfrontofme.
“Please,”IsayinmybestBritishaccent.Iliftthecupandmakeashowofpushingmypinkieup,sky-high,becauseIknowit’llmakeherlaugh.Margaretgiggles,tiltingthepitcherwithbothhands.It’stooheavyforher,Icantell,andtheiceandliquidcomesbarrelingoutandoverflowsoutofmycupandintothegrass.
“Myapologies,”shesays,lickingthesideofthepitcherbeforeplacingitbackdown.Forsomereason,itmakesmesmile.Thewayshesaysit,likealittleadult.Shehearditsomewhere,I’msure—Momonthephone,maybe,oronsomeTVshow—chewingitoverinhermindbeforeparrotingitback.
She’salwayswatching,alwayslistening.Alwaysabsorbinglifelikeasponge,silentandporousandmalleableinourhands.
“Isawthefootprints.”
MynecksnapstowardMargaret,stillstandingaboveme,herheadtiltedtothesidelikeacuriousbird.Iwashopingshehadn’tnoticedthose—thosefaint,muddyprintstrailingtheirwayfromthehalltomybed—butIshouldhaveknownbetter.Margaretnoticeseverything.
“Doyougooutside?”sheasks.“Atnight?”
Idon’tknowhowtoanswerthat,soinstead,Iglancebacktowardthemarsh,myeyesonthewaterlappingagainstthedockasItrytoconjureupamemorydancingsomewhereinmysubconscious.Somewhereoutofreach.
“Iguess,”Isayatlast.
“Whatdoyoudo?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Doyougoswimming?”
“Idon’tknow,”Irepeat,closingmyeyes.
“Whycan’tyoujustsleepnormal?”
“Idon’tknow,Margaret.”
Sheplopsdownnexttome,herbarelegscopperyandsmooth.Iwatchasshepushesafewstrandsofsweatyhairoffofherforeheadbeforesheturnstomeagain,allthosequestionsswirlinginhereyes.
“Isitbecauseofwhathappened?”
Itcomestomeinflashes,likesomethingoutofanightmare:me,creepingdownthehallway,carefulnottogetcaught.Dad,pacingthehalls,whiteknucklesaroundabottleofbrownliquidwhilemymotherlaysplayedoutonamattress,whitesheetsstainingred.
“We’renotsupposedtotalkaboutthat,”Isay.
“Thishouseisalittlecreepysometimes.”
Iglancebacktothehouse,standingtallatthetopofthatgianthill.I’velivedmyentirelifeinthishouse;agedfromanewbornbabycradledinmymother’sarmstonowaveryindependenteight.AndasI’veaged,thingshavechanged.I’vechanged.Weallhave,really.We’veallturnedintosomethingdifferent,almostunrecognizable,mutatingwithtimelikethewooditself.
“Yeah,”Iagree.“It’ssobig,soold.Lotsofnoises.”
“Youeverfeellikewe’renotaloneinit?”
Ithinkabouttheplaqueboltedoutfrontandalltheotherpeoplewhohavecalledthisplacehome.Thestatuesthatseemtohavemindsoftheirownandthesoldierswhodiedhere,theirbodiesprobablyscatteredaroundtheproperty,pilesofbonesburiedbeneaththefloorboards
“It’sjustme.Walkingaround,”Isay,becauseIcan’tbringmyselftotellherthatIfeelit,too:thecompanyofsomethingotherworldlythatIcan’tquitename.Theever-presentauraofsomething,orsomeone,tryingtowarnus,scareus.Ican’tevenbringmyselftokillbugshere.WheneverIwatchmydadslapatabeetlewitharolled-upnewspaperorpopatickbetweenhisfingers,Iinstinctivelyflinchandsayalittleprayer,knowingthateachoneisjustaddingtothebodycount.Tippingthescalesofthisplaceevenfurtherinthedirectionofdeath.
ItwistbacktowardMargaret,butsheisn’tfacingmeanymore.She’sfacingthewater,andIcanseeherspineprotrudefromthebackofherneck,askinnylittlecentipedeslitheringbeneaththeskin.
“Trynottoworryaboutit,”Isayatlast.
Margaretnods,hereyesstilltrainedonsomethinginthedistance,andIfollowhergazetothegiantoaktreeontheedgeofourproperty,itsmangledlimbshangingdirectlyoverthewaterandtheSpanishmosstwistedintoitsbarklikeknottedhair.It’slowtidenow,thewaterslowlyretreating,andIcanheartheclickingoftinyfiddlercrabsastheyclimboveroneanother,theirmovementmakingitseemasthoughthegroundisalive,breathing.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
NOW
Itriedtogetsomerestyesterday.Toprepare.
Itookacoupleofsleepingpillsatnoonandsunkintomycouch,lettingmylidsgrowheavy.ThenIfeltmyeyeballsrollback,arednessdrippingovermyvisionasIstaredattheinsideofmyownskin,myveins.AsIletmymindwanderforawhile,gettinglostinafeverishkindofdream—anopenwindow,thatprehistoricstenchofthemarsh—but
Somewhereinbetween,likepurgatory.
Iglanceattheclockbeforemakingmywayovertomylaptopandskimmingafewemails—sometruecrimefanswhomanagedtofindmyaddress;acoupleofinterviewrequests,mostlytrash—andclickbackovertotheTrueCrimeConarticleIwasreadingonMonday.Irefresh,scrollingbackdowntothecommentstoseeifthere’sanythingnew.
Sowe’rejustgoingtoignorethiswoman’shistory,then?Herpast?
Leaveheralone!She’sagrievingmother.
Thatpoorchild.Let’snotforgethe’stherealvictimhere.
He’sinabetterplace.
Ifeelacatchinmythroat,mymousehoveringoverthelastone.He’sinabetterplace.Itwasleftyesterday,oneyearfromthedayofMason’sdisappearance.Myeyesscantheusername.It’sgeneric,amessofrandomnumbersandletterswithadefaultgraysilhouetteastheprofilepicture.Itrytoclickonit,butittakesmenowhere.
Iwonderwhatthatmeans:He’sinabetterplace.Istareatit,myeyesdrillingintothescreenuntilthelettersstarttobluranddouble.Igetlostthereforasecond,staring,untilIshakemyheadandcopytheURL,composinganewemailtoDetectiveDozieranddroppingitintothebody.
“Readthelastcomment,”Itype.“CanwetracetheIPaddress?”
Ishoottheemailoffwithaswooshandclosemyeyesagain,exhalingslowly.ThenIstandup,grabmypurse,andforcemyselftowalkoutthedoor.
ImakemywayinsidealittlecornerbistrocalledFramboise,aplaceneartheofficeIusedtofrequentforlunch.I’mearly,intentionally,soItakeaseatatthebarandorderaglassofSancerreandacrockofFrenchonionsoup—butwhenthefoodarrives,Ican’tbringmyselftoeat.Instead,Itakemyspoonandpushdownonthemeltedcheese,watchingthebrownliquidgushthroughthetopandstarttopool.
Itremindsmeofafootprintinpluffmud,swampwaterleakingout.
Istareintothebowl,settingmyselfadriftforasecond.Icanhearthestreetgettingnoisierasthesquarecomesalivewithartschoolstudentswalkinghomefromclassandyoungprofessionalssneakingawayfromtheirdeskstocatchahappyhourspecial.Ivaguelyregisterlightsfromoutsidetwinklinginthedistance;theclackofhorse-drawncarriagespullingtouriststodinneracrossroughcobblestoneroads.It’sarhythmicsound,peaceful.Likethesteadyclickofametronomeorafingernailtappingagainstaglasspanewindow.
Ifeelmyheadstarttobob,heavy,likeit’sslowlyfillingwithsand.Likesoonmyneckwon’tbeabletoholditonitsown.Likeitmighttoppleoverandbreak.
Click-click-click-click.
“Mrs.Drake?”
Ijoltatthesuddenclosenessofavoice,myheadpoppinguplikesomeoneyankedmebackbymyhair.IglancearoundforaclockandtrytoimaginehowImusthavelooked,staringdownatthebartop,ahazymistcoatingmyeyesforGod-knows-how-long.
Fiveseconds,maybe.Fiveminutes.Mybody,here,butmymind,somewhereelse.Somewherefaraway.
“Sorry,”Isay,lookingup,blinkingafewtimestoclearthefogfrommyeyes.“Iwaslostinthoughtforasecondthere—”
Ihavetosquinttomakeouthisfaceinthedimrestaurantlight,myeyesstillbleary,andittakesmeamomenttorecognizehim.It’sWaylon—ofcourseitis,thatdeep,velvetyvoice—hoveringjustabovetheemptybarstoolnexttomine.Irubmyeyes,tryingtopullittogether.ThebarisbusierthanitwaswhenIfirstsatdown;mysoup,stilluntouchedbeneathme,alreadycongealed.
“DoyoumindifIsit?”heasks.Icantellhe’suncomfortable,likehe’sintrudingonaprivatedinnerinsteadofsimplyshowingupattheplaceandtimewehadagreed.
“Ofcoursenot,”Isay,gesturingtothebarstoolbesideme.Iwatchasheglancesaroundtherestaurantbeforeself-consciouslyduckinghisheadashesits,asiftomakehimselfseemsmaller.“Thanksforcomingonsuchshortnotice.”
“Areyoukidding?”heasks,flaggingdownthebartenderandorderingawhiskeyontherocks.“IdroppedeverythingwhenIgotyournote.”
Itakeasipofmywine.BackwhenIemailedhimonMondaynight,Iwasn’treallysurewhatIwasproposing—justthatIwasopentotryingsomethingnew,somethingdifferent.Somethingthatmightactuallywork.Hehadrespondedwithinseconds,almostasifhehadbeensittingrightthereonhisowncomputer,waitingforme.WillingmetohitSend.
“Savannah’sacooltown,”hesays,hisarmsvaguelygesturingaroundus.It’sawell-intentionedattemptatsmalltalk,Iknow,beforedivingintotherealreasonwe’rehere.
“Itis.”
“Haveyoualwayslivedhere?”
“No,”Isay,hesitating.Idon’treallywanttoelaborate,butwhenWaylonisstillquiet,stillstaringatme,Ikeeptalkingtofilltheemptyspace.“No,I’mfromBeaufort,SouthCarolina.It’sanothercoastalcity,albeitsmallerthanSavannah.PortRoyalIsland.”
“WhatwasgrowingupinBeaufortlike?”
IstopandstareatWaylon,suspicioncreepingintomychest.
“I’dprefernottotalkaboutthat.”
Waylonraiseshiseyebrows,andIfeelmyheartbegintorace,beatinghardinmythroat.IrealizenowthatnomatterhowmanytimesI’vedonethis,nomatterhowmanytimesI’vetoldmystory,thistime,it’sdifferent.Thisisn’tdetached,standingonastagesomewhereandrecitingthesamethingoverandoveragaintostrangersatadistance.
Thistime,it’spersonal.Ihavenoideawhatquestionshemightask.Ihavenowaytoescape.
“Fairenough,”hesaysatlast,takingasipofhiswhiskey.“Let’sjumprightin,then.Whydon’tyoutellmeabitaboutthatnight?Howitstarted?”
Healreadyknowsthis,I’msure.Hesawmykeynote—besides,youcanfinditallthroughasimpleGooglesearch,anarchivednewsbroadcast,oneofthehundredsofarticlesthathavebeenwrittenaboutthatawfulMarchnight.Iimaginehejustwantstohearitallinmyownwords,unscripted,soItellhimabouthowIputMasontobed,likeIalwaysdo,aroundseveno’clock.HowIreadhimastory,thoughI’mnotsurewhichoneitwas.HowIhadturnedonhisnight-light,blewhimakissfromthehallway,andclosedthedoorbehindme.
“MyhusbandandIstayedupforanotherfewhoursafterthat,”Isay.“WewatchedsomeTV,hadacoupleglassesofwine.Ipokedmyheadintocheckonhimaroundeleven,sawthathewasstillsleeping,andthenwenttobed.”
“Didyouhearanythingstrangeduringthenight?Anynoises?”
“No.Iusedtobeaveryheavysleeper.”
“Usedtobe?”
“Notsomuchanymore,”Isay,butIdon’telaborate.
“Soyourhusbandcouldhavegottenup,andyouwouldn’thavenoticed?”
Ishoothimalook,myeyebrowcocked.“Hewasquestionedextensively,obviously.Imean,yeah,Iguesshecouldhave,butBenwouldn’thurtourson.Hehadnoreasonto.Wewerehappy.”
“Whatabouttheneighbors?”Waylonasks.“Didtheyseeanything?”
Ishakemyhead,sippingsilently.
“Andwhattimedidyounoticehewasgone?”
I’mquiet,replayingthatmorningagaininmymind.HowIhadwokenupearly,aroundsix,thewayIalwaysdid.HowIhadbrewedmycoffee,putteredaroundthekitchen.WastedtwoprecioushoursscrollingthroughInstagramandreadingthenewspaperandscramblingeggsbeforeIhadevereventhoughttocheckonhim.Becausethat’sthethingabouttime:Itfeelsendlessinthemornings,thedaystretchedoutbeforeyoulikealongyawn.Irememberactuallyfeelingrelievedasitcontinuedtodragon,slowanduneventful,nonoiseseruptingfrombeneathhisbedroomdoor.Noscreamsorwhinesorcries.Iwasgratefulthathewassleepingin,thatIhadafewmoremomentsofquietthannormal.Ofprecioustimetomyself.
Ididn’trealizethatthesecondIpokedmyheadintohisbedroom,Iwouldsoonberacingagainstit.Beggingittostop.
“Alittleaftereight.”
“Anyclues?”heasks,aburningintensityinhiseyes.Ilookdownathisdrink,noticethewayhe’stwirlinghisglassinrhythmiccircles.“Prints?DNA?”
“Anopenwindow,”Isay.“I’malmostpositiveIcloseditthenightbefore.Sometimesweopenedit,toletthefreshairin,butIneverwouldhave—”
Istop,exhale,takeanotherdrink.
“Theyfoundourfingerprintsonthewindowsill,obviously,butnobodyelse’s.Therewasapartialshoeprintinthemudoutsidehiswindow—ithadrainedthatmorning—butnotenoughtogleananyrealmeaningfromit.”
“Estimatedshoesize?”
“Theythinkitmayhavebeensomewherebetweenasizenineandasizeeleven,butwehadworkers,too.Lotsofpeoplewhocouldhaveleftit.Theexterminatorcamethedaybeforeandsprayedinthatexactspot,sowedon’tevenknowifhe’stheone—”
“Youkeepsayinghe,”Wayloninterrupts.“Doyouknowthepersonwhotookhimisahe?”
“Well,no,”Iadmit.“Butthevastmajorityofstrangerkidnappingsarecommittedbymen.”
“Well,thealternativetoastrangerkidnappingisthekidnapperbeingsomeoneinthefamily,”hesays.“Someoneclose.”
“Yes,”Isay,bitingmycheek.“Andthevastmajorityofparentalkidnappingsarecommittedbywomen.Themother.Sowhydon’twegetthatoutofthewayrightnow?”
IlookatWaylon,myeyesunflinching.
“Ididn’thurtmyson.Ididn’tdoanythingtohim.I’mtryingtofindthepersonwhodid.”
“That’s…notwhatIwasimplying,”Waylonresponds,hishandsraisedinsurrender.Helooksgenuinelyuncomfortable,onceagainsurprisedatmysuddenoutburst,likethattimeontheplane,soIsimplynodandturnbacktowardthebar,mycheeksburningasIscanallthedifferentbottlesofamberliquidglisteninginthedimlight.
“Isthereanythingelseyouthinkisworthmentioning?”heasks,tryingtogentlynudgeusalongagain.“Clues,Imean?”
“Yes,”Isay,asqueezeinmychest.“Theyfoundhisstuffedanimalwhentheyweresearchingtheneighborhood.Adinosaurheusedtosleepwith.”
“Whereintheneighborhood?”
I’mquiet,stickingmyfingerintheglassandswipingataspeckofsedimentstucktotherim.
“Onthebanksofthemarsh,”Isayfinally.“Inthemud.”
“I’massumingtheysearchedthemarsh,though,right?Foranyotherclues?Or…”
“Helicopters,divers,”Isay,answeringhisquestionpreemptivelysohedoesn’thavetosaywhatIknowhe’sthinking:abody.Him.“Theydidn’tfindanythingelse—though,ofcourse,withthefallingtide,anyofhisotherbelongingscouldhavebeenpulledintotheocean,sowemayneverknow.”
“Doyouhaveanytheories?”heasksatlast.“Whatdoyouthinkhappened?”
Isigh,picturingallthosearticlesonmydiningroomwall;thelistsofnamesthatIscourthrough,nightafternight,hopingagainsthopethatsomethingimportantmightfinallyleapfromtheshadowsandmakeitselfknown.
“Ihavenoidea,”Isayatlast,andthat’stheuglytruthofit.NomatterhowmanynightsI’vespentawake,poringoverhiscasefileorpoundingondoorsorscrubbingtheinternetforsomesubtleclue,Istillhavenoideawhathappenedtomyson.
Ihavenoideawhereheis.
“Noneofitmakesanysense,”Icontinue.“YouhavenoideahowmanytimesI’veretracedmyfootstepsofthatnight,triedtoremembersomedetailthatmightbethekeytoitall.Sometinylittlethingthatwasoutofplace—”
“Maybeyouneedtostopretracingyourfootsteps,”Wayloninterrupts,hiseyesonthesideofmyface.“Maybeyouneedtotryanewpath.”
Iturnandlookathim,myeyesflickeringoverhisfeaturesinthedark.
“Maybe.”Ishrug,turningbacktowardthebar.“That’swhyIemailedyou.”
We’rebothstillasthebartenderwalkstowardus,takingalittletoolongtocleantheinsideofahighballglass.Icanseehiseyesflitterovertousafewtimes,andIwonderifherecognizesme.Iwonderhowmuchhe’sheard.Finally,anotherpatronflagshimdown,andhe’sforcedtomoveon.
“Didn’tyouhaveababymonitor?”Waylonasks,asifitsuddenlyoccurredtohimthattheentirethingmighthavebeencaughtoncamera.Itfeelsaccusatory,thewayhesaysit,butIcouldbeprojecting.
Iclosemyeyes,bowmyhead.Ittakesafewsecondsformetoworkupthecouragetoanswerthisone,andwhenIdo,Icanhearmyvoicecrack.
“Yes,”Isay.“Wedo.Wedid.Itwaswireless,butthebatteriesweredead,soitwasn’trecording.”
Waylonisquiet.He’sthinking,I’msure,aboutallthelittlewaysthisshouldhavegonesodifferently.AbouthowIshouldhavedouble-checkedthatthewindowwasclosed,maybeevenlockedit.AbouthowIshouldhavebeensleepingwithoneearopen,readytoruntohimifhecalledout.AbouthowIshouldhavecheckedonhimassoonasIhadwokenup,calledthepoliceatsixinsteadofeight,orhowIshouldhavechangedthebatteriesinthebabymonitorthesecondIrealizedtheyweredeadinsteadofwaitinguntilitwasconvenientformetoruntothestore.
“It’snotyourfault,”hesaysinstead,downingthelastofthetawnyliquidatthebottomofhisglass.“Youknowthat,right?”
Ifeelthestingoftearsinmyeyes,soIsqueezethemshut,swallowingtherockIfeellodgedinmythroat.I’mnotusedtohearingthat.ThenIrubaroguetearawayfrommycheekwiththebackofmyhandandnod,smile,thankhimforhiswords.BecauseIdon’twanttotellhimthatsomewhere,deepdown,itseemslikeitis.AndI’mnotjusttalkingaboutmomguilt,thatsecretsocietyreservedformothersthatbattersonesinglenotionintoourbrainsoverandoverandoveragain:Thatnomatterwhatwedo,nomatterhowhardwetry,we’redoingitallwrong.Thateverylittlethingisourfault;thatwe’reunfit,unworthy.Thatourshortcomingsarethecauseofeveryscreamandtearandtremblinglip.
Thisissomethingmorethanthat.
It’sthatfeelingagain,theonemyownmotherwarnedmeabout.Thatfeelingthatsomeone,somewhere,istryingtotellmesomething.ThatI’mmissingsomething—somethingbig.
ThatIknowsomething.ButIcan’t,forthelifeofme,rememberwhatitis.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
It’slatewhenIgethome,aftermidnight.MaybeIcanblameitontheSancerre,orthedimlightsthatmadeithardtodiscernhowmuchtimehadpassed,ortheknowledgethattherewasnothingwaitingformebackhomeotherthananemptyhouseandanotherlong,darkstretchofquiet.Anotherperpetualwaitingforthosefirstlittleglimmersofnormallifethatonlyemergedwiththesun
Butwhateveritwas,WaylonandIstayedseatedonthosebarstoolsforaverylongtime.
IstepintomyhousenowandgreetRoscoeatthedoor,scratchingbehindhisearsbeforepullingoffmycoatandmakingmywaytowardthekitchen.ThenIpourmyselfaglassofwaterbeforewalkingtomylaptop.
“Givemeoneminute,”Isaytohim,tappingthekeysastheglowofthescreenilluminatesmyfaceinthedark.Irefreshmybrowserandcheckmyemail:noresponsefromDozier.ThenItakeadeepdrinkandclickbacktothearticle,scrollingdowntothecommentsagain,theliquidsuddenlylodginginmywindpipe,makingmechoke.Isputteroutagag,slammingtheglassdownonthetableasIfeelthewaterclawattheliningofmythroat.
Icough,blinkafewtimestoclearthetearsfrommyeyes,andrefreshitagain,butitdoesn’tmatter.Itstilllooksthesame.
Thecommentisgone.
“Shit,”Iwhisper,leaningbackintomychair.Ishouldhavetakenascreenshot.Irefreshagain,justtobesure,andammetwiththesameblankscreenwherethatsentencestaredbackatmejustafewhoursago.
He’sinabetterplace.
IstandupandslipoffmyshoesbeforelacingupapairofsneakersandfasteningRoscoe’sleashtohiscollar.EventhoughIjustgothome,Ihaveanurgentneedtogetoutofthishouseagain.Itfeelslikethere’ssomethingheavysettlingoverit,likethesensationofastormasitmovesquicklyandquietlyacrossthesky:bloatedandominous
Iexhaleassoonaswegetoutside,thecoolnightairfillingmylungsandmakingthemburn.Wewalkdownourporchsteps,andRoscoeveersright,thewayhealwaysdoes,untilsuddenly,IhearWaylon’svoiceinmyhead,envelopingmelikeablanketoffog.
“Maybeyouneedtostopretracingyourfootsteps.Maybeyouneedtotryanewpath.”
IgiveRoscoeatug,stoppinghiminhistracks.
“Let’sgothisway,”Isay,turningleft,forcinghimtofollow.“Dosomethingalittledifferenttonight.”
Wewalksilentlyforawhile,venturingdeeperintothedarkness,theroadlikeaninkblotbleedingintothedistance.Asusual,thehousesaredead,alltheirlightsoff.There’sadeafeningquiettotheneighborhood,moresothanusual,andit’smakingmythoughtsringalittlelouder,rattlingaroundinmymindlikeloosechangeinajar.
I’musedtothinkingaboutMason,ofcourse.TalkingaboutMason.Butlately,I’vebeenthinkingaboutotherthings,too.AboutBenandourbeginnings;aboutMargaretandmyparents.Aboutwhathappenedbackthenandhowmyentirelifeseemstobeonegiantquestionmark.Astringofellipsesandunresolvedendings,theanswersdarkandmurky,likesittingonthedock,feetsubmergedinthewater,tryingtofindyourtoesthroughthemuck.
Andthenthere’sthatfeelingagain.Thatfeelingthattheanswersaresoclose,withinmyreach.Thatsomeone,somewhere,istryingtotellmesomething—orthatIalreadyknowsomething,andIjustcan’tretainthethought.It’slikewakingupgroggyandtryingtorememberadream,theoutlinesofitfuzzyandfading.Rackingyourbrain,attemptingtorecallwordsorshapesorsoundsorsmells,anythingtogetyoujustalittlebitclosertothetruth.
Butaftertoomuchtime,itwithersaway,gettingerasedfromyourmemory,liketheashesofaburntbuildinggettingsweptupinthebreeze.
RoscoeandIhavebeenwalkingforabouttwentyminutesnow,andalthoughI’mnotasfamiliarwiththispartoftheneighborhood,Icantellthatwe’restartingtomakeourwaybackhome.We’renearingthemarsh,andatthispoint,mypupilshavefullydilated,myeyesadjustedtothenight.Icanseethingsmoreclearly:theoutlineoftoysabandonedinfrontyards,soggynewspapersleftindriveways.Anoverturnedgarbagecan,theownerstoolazytosecurethelid.There’strashscatteredacrossthesidewalk,theworkofraccoons,andthat’stheproblem:Nobodyeverstopstowonderwhathappensinthedeadofnight,allthethingsthattakeplacewhentheworldisunconscious.Thestrangerswholurkintheshadows,crouchinglowbeneathawindowortwistingtheknobofanunlockeddoor.Theanimalswhohunt,warmblooddrippingfromtheirteethastheyfeastonthemeatofanother.Wejustassumethatwhenwefallasleep,theworlddoes,too.Weexpectittoresumeexactlyasitwasinthemorning,untouched.Unbothered.Asiflifejuststopsbecausewehave.
Butthat’snottrue.EvenbeforeMasonwastaken,Iknewitwasn’ttrue.Iwasalwayskeenlyawareoftheevilsthatmaskthemselvesinthecloakofnight;thehorrorsthathaunttheworldwhilewesleep.
RoscoeandIareonthestreetparalleltomyownnow,justabouttoturnthecorner,whenthesilenceisbrokenbyalowgrowl.
“Hey,”Isay,yankinghisleash.“Stopthat.”
Hekeepsgrowling,thenoisegettinglouder,angrier,hispawsplantedfirmlyontheconcreteandhistailpointedback.He’sstaringatsomethingacrossthestreet,ahouse,andwhenIfollowhisgazebeneaththestreetlight,Iletoutasmallyelp,myhandjumpingtomychest.
“I’msosorry,”Isay,exhaling,feelingmyheartthumphardbeneathmybones.“Ididn’tseeyouthere.”
There’samansittingonhisfrontporch,justafewfeetaway.Helooksold,maybeinhiseighties,wearingathickbrownrobecinchedtightatthewaist.Hishairisgrayanddisheveled,hiseyesdistantanddull.He’ssittingsilentlyinarockingchair,hisslipperedfeetpushinghimselfbackandforth.Agentlecreakingbarelyaudibledespite
“Niceevening,”Isay,smiling.Tryingtobreakthetension.“Idon’tbelievewe’vemet.I’myourneighbor,Isabelle.Ilivejustoverthere—”
Istarttopointbacktowardmyhouse,onestreetover,butthemandoesn’trespond.Instead,heturnstomeandcontinuestostare—atme,throughme.Iwonderifmaybehe’sdeaforblind;ifhecan’thearorseeme.Ifmybodyisjustavagueblurinfrontofhim,nodifferentfromashadow.Myvoice,agustofwind.
Iwonderwhathe’sdoingrightnow,sittingaloneonhisporchatoneinthemorning.Itseemsstrange,toolatetobeoutside.ButthenIsupposehecouldsaythesameforme.
“Allright,well.Haveagoodone.”
IpullRoscoe,forcinghimtofollow,allthewhilefeelingtheman’seyesonmyback.Oncewemakeithomeandstepinside,Ilockthedoorbehindmewithalittlemoreurgencythannormal,thoughIcan’tputmyfingeronwhy.It’snotasthoughthatmancouldbedangerous,trailingmeinthedark.
It’sonlylater—aroundthreeinthemorning,asI’mmindlesslyflippingthroughchannels,sinkingdeepintothecouch—whenIrealizewhatitis.
Allthistime,there’sbeenaninherentstrangenesstomynights,knowingthatI’mawakewhileeveryoneelseisasleep.Knowingthat,inaneighborhoodfullofpeople,I’mcompletelyalone.Itmakesmefeelotherworldly,different.Liketheonlyfishswimmingacrossanever-endingocean;likeanythingcouldhappenandnotasoulwouldsee.Butnow,seeingthatman—hiseyeslikepeeledgrapesashestaredintothedarkness;thewayhecreakedbackandforthinhisrockingchair,amethodicalrhythm,likesomeonehadwoundupakeyinhisbackandlefthimtosway—Iunderstandthatthere’ssomethingevenmoreunsettlingthanbeingaloneinthedark.
It’srealizingthatyou’renotreallyaloneatall.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
THEN
Isneakdownthehallway,toespointed,mybarefeetavoidingtheboardsthatarepronetocreaking.Iknowthemall:thesoftspotsinthewoodthatshiftundertheweightofmyheel;therustydoorhingesthatwhineinthenight.MargaretandIhaveturnedthishouseintoourownenchantedlabyrinth—roaminghalls,twistingdoorknobs.Pokingourheadsinsidebarelyusedroomsandholdingourbreathaswetrailourhandsacrossthefurniture,leavingbehindnothingbutfingerstreaksinthedust.Thecorridorloomsbeforemenowlikeatonguerollingoutofthedepthsofadarkenedthroat,butstill,Iforcemyselfforward.Intotheunderbellyofthehouse.
It’squiet,butmyparentsareawake.IcanhearthemshutinsideDad’soffice.Icanhearthemwhisper.
“Youdon’tknowwhatit’slike,”mymothersays,hervoicelikesilkthat’sstartingtotear.“Henry,youdon’tunderstand.”
Ifeelarocklodgeinmythroat,andIswallow,tryingtoforceitdown.DadworksinWashington—theRhettshavebeeninCongresssincemygrandfather’sgrandfather,orsothestorygoes—buthealwayscomeshomefortheweekendbeforeturningaroundandleavingagaineveryMondaymorning.HeusuallybringsMargaretandmesomekindofpresentwhenhe’sback—candiedpralinesorboiledpeanutsorbagsofthick,juicyscuppernongsthathepicksupfromaroadsidevendoronhisdrivebackfromtheairport—areminderofhisloveforusthathasslowlystartedtofeelmorelikeanapology.Orabribe.
“Ineedyoutocomehome,”shecontinues.“Stayhomewithme.Please.”
“YouknowIcan’tdothat,”myfathersays,hisvoicelowandstern.“Elizabeth,youknowthat.You’vealwaysknownthat.”
“Idon’tknowifIcandoitanymore.I’mstartingtofeel…Idon’tknow.Thegirls.Somedays,Ilookatthem,andI—”
“Yesyoucan,”hesays.“Youcandothis.Thegirlsarefine.”
Margaretbroughtitupagainatdinnertonight:thosefootprintsonmycarpet,muddyandfadinglikemymemory,mymind.Icanstillheartheclankofmymother’sforkasshedroppedit;myfather,staringatus,probablyimaginingmewanderingintothemarshatnight.Mywhitenightgownstickingtomyankles,mycalves,mythighs.Thewatermovinghigherandhigheruntilitpoureddownmythroat.
“Maybeifwecouldjustgetsomehelp,”mymothersaysnow,hervoiceperkingup.“IfIcouldgetsomehelp—”
“No.”
Theroomgrowsquiet,butit’sthekindofquietthat’sheavy,danglingoverthemlikeapianosuspendedbyastring,threateningtocomecrashingdowninaninstantandburytheminthedebris.Andthat’swhenIhearmymothersigh—asighofresignation,maybe.Frustration.Ofknowingthatnomatterwhatshesays,nomatterhowhardshepleads,comeMondaymorning,he’llbegoneagain,andshe’llbelefttodealwithusalone.
“Elizabeth,thiswasthedeal,”myfathersays.“MyjobisinWashington,yoursishere.Ithoughtthisiswhatyouwanted?”
“Itwas,”shewhispers.“Itis.”
“Youcanstayhome,”hesays.“Youcanpaint.Wecankeepgrowingourfamily.”
Anotherboutofquiet,butthistime,different.Intimateandfragile.IthinkIcanhearthegroanofachair,thesoundofrustlingclothes.Thealmostinaudiblesuctionoftwolipspressedtogether,movinginunison.Itakeastepbackward,tryingtomakemywaybackupstairs,whentheboardgroansbeneathmyfeet—andsuddenly,Icantellthatthemovementhasstopped.Icanfeeltheireyesontheothersideofthedoor,watchingmefreezeinfear,likeadeeronthewrongsideoftwoheadlightsbarrelingfast.
Iholdmybreath,standperfectlystill,untilIhearthescreechofachairbeingpushedback,myfather’slumberingfootstepsgrowingloud.
Myheartplummetsasthedoorswingsopen.
“Isabelle.”
Istareupatmyfathertoweringabovemeandfeelimpossiblysmall.Helooksatmeforamoment,quiet,beforeopeningthedoorwider.Inside,Iseemymothersittingonthearmofhisofficechair,nightgownhangingoffoneshouldersoIcanseethepopofherclavicle.Shestaresatmeinthedoorframe,hereyeswaxyandred.She’sbeencrying,Icantell,andIfeelguilty.Guiltyformakingherfeellikethis.
Ithinkofherwordstomyfather,ahushedwhisper.Adesperatepleading.
“Youdon’tknowwhatit’slike.Youdon’tunderstand.”
“Icouldn’tfallasleep,”Iblurtout,realizingtheymightbethinkingitrightnow:thatI’mdoingitagain.ThatI’mwalkingthehallsofthehouseinmysleep,standingherewithmyeyesopenandanemptinessontheotherside.
Mymotherstandsupandglidesacrosstheroom,joiningmyfatherinthedoorway.Shecontinuestostare,examiningme.It’sthesamewayshelooksatmesometimeswhenIwakeupinthedark,standinginthebathroomwiththefaucetrunningorholdingaspatulainthekitchen.Thesamewayshetiltsherheadtotheside,likeshe’sstudyingme.Likeshe’stryingtodetermineifI’mreal.
Likeshe’safraid.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
NOW
Thatmanfromlastnight,sittingonhisporch.Somethingabouthimhasbeenirkingme,botheringme,stickingtomysidelikeaburrdigginginitsspikes.
Iwalkintothediningroom,streaksoforangelightilluminatingthehouseandamugofcoffeepushedhotinmyhands.ThenIstareatthewall,thatgiantcanvascoveredinpicturesandmapsandarticleclippings;Post-itnoteswithlate-nightruminationsthathaveneveramountedtomuch.Hedidn’tlookfamiliartomeinanyway;hedidn’tseemlikeanybodyIknow—andthat’swhenithitsme.
Heshouldlookfamiliar.HeshouldbesomebodyIknow.
Iknoweveryoneinthisneighborhood.They’reallrighthere,rightinfrontofme.I’veresearchedthemall,walkedhouse-to-houseandpoundedondoors.I’velistenedtotheiralibisandapologiesandforcedmyselftosmile,nod,thankthemfortheirtime.Andthroughitall,I’venevercomeacrossthatman.I’veneverseenhim.Ifheliveshere—soclosetomyhome,hishousepracticallyparalleltomine—Ishouldknowwhoheis.Ishouldknoweverythingabouthim.
ButIdon’t.
Ihearthesqueakofwheelsinmydriveway,andItwistaround,registeringRoscoeperkingupfromhiscorner.
“Benice,”Iwarnasacardoorslamsoutside,andalowgrowlbeginstorumbleinhisthroat.
FootstepsstarttoapproachmyhousebeforeaknockonthefrontdoorsendsRoscoeintoafrenzy.Iwalkoverquickly,swingingitopentofindWaylononmydoorstep,abriefcaseinonehandandanequipmentcaseintheother.
“Goodmorning.”Ismile,gesturingforhimtocomein.Afterdinnerlastnight,Ihadagreedtoanotherconversation—ontherecordthistime.Hesmilesbackatmenow,hesitatingbeforehestepsinside,andIgetthedistinctfeelingthathe’snervoustoday.Itseemsstrange,givenhowlaid-backhewaslastnight,butIsupposebeinginmyhomeisdifferentfrommeetingataneutrallocation.
ButthenIrealize:Itmightbethedog
“Don’tworry,he’sfriendly,”Isay,pushingRoscoeoutoftheway.“Hedoesthiswithstrangers.”
“It’snoproblem,”Waylonsays,kneelingdowntolethimsniffhisfingers.Oncehestandsbackupandstepsinside,Iwatchasheglancesaround,takingeverythingin.
“Beautifulhome.”
“Thankyou.”
“Isthiswhereyou’vealwayslived?”
Iknowwhathe’sasking,maskingitinpoliteformalities.Hewantstoknowifthisiswhereithappened,whereMasonwastaken.
“Wemovedhereaboutsevenyearsago.”
Iseehimdrinkinthelivingroomagain,hiseyessearchingforanyevidenceofwe.Men’sshoeskickedoffbythedoormat,maybe,orabaseballcaprestingontheisland.Familyphotosofthehappycouple,Masonnestledsnuglybetweenus
Hedoesn’tfindanything.
“Myhusbandmovedout,”Isay,clenchingmyfists.I’mnotwearingmyring,either.Iwaswhenwemetthatdayontheplane,butIdidn’tthinkaboutitthistime.Afterall,apodcastisonlyaudio.“Thiswholethingishard,youknow,onarelationship.”
Waylongivesmeasadsmile,likehe’stryingtounderstand.“I’msorry.”
“Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?”
ItakeoffintothekitchenbecauseIdon’tknowwhatelsetodo.Withoutthemaskofthedimrestaurantlightsorthethreeglassesofwinetofurtherdullmysenses,Ifeelsuddenlyexposedhereinmyhome.LikeWaylonisnotonlylookingatme,butthroughme,seeingallthedarkanddangerousthingscoiledupontheinside.
“No,I’mfine,”hecallsoutfromthelivingroom.I’malreadytoppingoffmyowncup,handsshaking.“I’vehadafewtoday.AnymoreandIwon’tbeabletosleep.”
Istifleasnort.Ifonlyheknew.
“Youcanputyourthingsdownoverthere.”Igesturetothediningroom,whereI’veclearedofftheusualclutterfromthetable.“There’sanoutletifyouneedtopluginyourequipment.”
“DoyoumindifIpokearoundfirst?”heasks.“Withpodcasts,descriptionisimportantsincethelistenerscan’tactuallyseewhatI’mtalkingabout.”
Istareathim,myhandspushedhardintomymug.HewantstoseeMason’sroom.HewantstogoinsideMason’sroom.
“Orwecanjustgetstarted,”hecontinues,sensingmyhesitation.“Whydon’twedothat?”
Ismile,nod,andmakemywayovertothediningroomtable.Waylonfollows,andIcanalmostfeeltheintakeofairasheturnsthecorner,silentlyprocessingwhat’sstaringback.
“Wow,”hesaysatlast,standingbeforethatwallofpictures.Hiseyesarewide,likehe’sadmiringsomeabstractworkofart.“Youdidallthisyourself?”
Ishoothimaself-conscioussmile.“Ihavealotoftimeonmyhands.”
Henods,lettinghimselfstareforanotherfewsecondsbeforesettingdownhiscaseandopeningthelatches,hiseyesoccasionallydartingbackovertothemessofarticlesandpicturesashepullsouthisequipment:twomicrophoneswithattachablepopscreens,twopairsofheadphones.Aminiaturestereo,batterypack,variouscoilsandcablesthatheproceedstountangleandplugintodifferent-coloredoutlets.Withinminutes,there’sanentiresoundstudiosetupinmydiningroom.
“Iknowitseemsintimidating,butIpromise,it’snot,”Waylonsays.Hehandsmeapairofheadphones,andItakethemfromhim,surprisedattheirunexpectedweight.“It’sjustforsoundquality.Itremovesbackgroundnoiseliketheair-conditioning,carshonking.Dogsbarking.”
Hesmilesatmeandwinks,andIsmileback,disarmedalittle,beforeputtingtheheadphonesonuntilthepaddedleatherissnugaroundmyears.Waylonputsonhisownandleansintothemicrophone.
“Check,check.”
Hisvoiceiscrystalclear,likehe’sspeakingtomethroughatunnel.Thesoundisamplifiedandcrisp,andIcan’thelpbutbesurprised.
“Thatmakesabigdifference,”Isay,speakingintomine.
“Suredoes.”Heflicksaswitchonthestereo,andInoticenowthatthere’sagreenlightblinking.“So,IsabelleDrake,thankyouforhavingmeinyourhometoday.”
“You’rewelcome,”Isayagain,awarenowthattheconversationhasofficiallystarted.Thatwhateverwassaidbefore,whenthislightwasn’tblinking,wasn’tbeingrecorded—so,therefore,didn’tcount.
“I’msureallofyouknowIsabelle’sstory,”Waylonsays,leaningintothemicrophone,thatfamiliarvoicetakingonamoreofficialtone.“Butforthoseuninformedfew,hereitis:Isabelle’sson,Mason,wastakenfromhisnurseryinthemiddleofthenightexactlyoneyearago.Hiscaseisstillunsolved.”
“That’sright,”Isay,feelingsuddenlyself-conscious.
“Thepolicehavenosuspects,noleads,andpracticallynoclues.Sofar,they’vebeencompletelyunabletoweaveastorytogetherofhowtheeventsofthatnightprogressed.”
Waylonissilentforamoment,lettinghispointsinkinforourinvisibleaudience.Thenhelooksupatme,alittlesmirktuggingathislip.
“Andthat,listeners,iswherewecomein.”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
WespendthefirstfewhoursrehashingwhatIsharedwithWaylonlastnight,goingabouttheconversationasifitwerehappeningforthefirsttime,unfoldingnaturally—onlythistime,withthatgreenlightblinking.
“Didyouhearanythingstrangeduringthenight?Anynoises?”
“Whattimedidyounoticehewasgone?”
Ianswerinthesameways,tellinghimthetruth.Tellinghimeverything.Andhenods,eyebrowsscrunched,likeheisjustasenthralledtobehearingitagain.It’slateafternoonbythetimewe’refinished,theentiredaysomehowgoneinablinkrighthereatmydiningroomtable.
Afterwe’vecovereditall,Waylonreachesoutandflipstheswitch,turningthegreenlightoff.
“Ithinkwe’redonefortheday.”Hesmiles.
Iwatchashepacksuphisthings,amethodicalmovementtohisroutine,likehe’sboxedupthisequipmentamilliontimesbeforeinthisexactsameway—whichhehas,Isuppose—anditsuddenlyremindsmethatI’mnotspecial.
Thatthisstory,Mason’sstory,isjustbusinesstohim.It’swork.
“Ihavesomethingforyou,”Isay,rememberingthecopyofthepolicerecordsImadeforhimthismorning.Ileantotheside,diggingthemoutofmybag.“I’vetoldyoueverything,butIdon’tknow.Maybereadingthroughitwillhelp.”
IhandthestackovertoWaylon,watchingashetakesthefolderandflipsitopen,hiseyesscanningthefirstpage.Thenhethumbstothesecond,thethird.Iknowwhathe’slookingatrightnow,skimmingeverythingslowly,methodically.I’vedonethesamethingmyselfhundredsoftimes.Themissingpersonsreportisinthere,Mason’spictureandphysicaldescription:brownhair,greeneyes,stripedpterodactylpajamas.Twenty-fivepounds,thirty-threeinches.Eighteenmonthsold.There’sacopyofhisMISSINGposter,too;Iremembermakingitonmylaptop,feelingdazedatthepointlessnessofitasIdraggedhisimagetothecenterofthescreen,croppingittight.IthadremindedmeofapplyingforhisbabypassporttheyearbeforewhenIwastryingtoconvinceBentotakeatripoverseas—oflayinghimdownonathinwhiteblanket,tryingtocalmhissquirmingasIsnappedapictureofhisface.Itseemedlikesuchastrangebutnecessaryformality,becauseintruth,kidsthatagealllookthesame:fleshycheeks,wispyhair.Lipswetandwrithinglikeagaspingfish.
IwatchWaylonflipthepageagain.Maybehe’slookingatthecrimescenephotosofourhousenow—emptycrib,openwindow,partialfootprintoutsideinthemud—orreadingthedozensofinterviewtranscriptswithBenandme:thosefirstconversations,panickedandfranticwithourfingersintertwinedonourlivingroomcouch,followedbycountlessothersatthepolicestation.Theykeptusseparatedthosetimes,estrangedbythewallsoftheinterrogationrooms,tryingtocatchoneofus,orbothofus,inamisstep.Alie.Irememberlookingatthewallbetweenus,knowingthatBenwasjustontheothersideofit.Icouldsensehimthere,thewayyoucansomehowsenseabodyhoveringbehindacloseddoor.Themisplacedair.
Irememberclosingmyeyes,tryingtohearwhathewastellingthem—aboutMason,aboutme.Itseemedsoimperativethatourstoriesaligned,wordforword,butIwasn’tsurewhytheywouldn’t.Wewerebothhome;wewerebothsleeping.Wedidn’thearathing.
“Thankyou,”Waylonsays,handingitbackoverthetable.Ican’thelpbutnoticenowhowpainfullylittlethereis;howquicklyhewasabletoscanthroughit.Becausethat’sallofit,rightthereinhishand.That’severythingthey’vegot—or,atleast,everythingthey’llsharewithus—wedgedbetweentwocardboardflaps,thinenoughtofitinapurse.
“Keepit,”Isay.“Ihavemyowncopy.”
“WouldyoumindifIreachedouttosomeofthesepeople?”heasks,tappingtheedgeofthefolderbeforeslippingitintohisbriefcase.“Tointerview?Friends,family,Ben—”
“Myfamilyisoff-limits,”Iinterrupt.“Pleasedon’tbotherthem.”
“Fine,”hesays.“Fairenough.”
“Friendsarefine,”Isay,eventhoughIdon’thavemanyofthoseanymore.“Neighborsarefine.Ben…”
Istop,wonderinghowtowordthisdelicately.Ireachforthemugbeforeme,eventhoughit’sempty,myfingersworryingtheirwayaroundtheedge.
“Benisn’tgoingtocooperate,”Isayatlast.“Andhonestly,hewon’tbehappyI’mdoingthis,soIwouldappreciateitifyoudidn’treachouttohim.Orattheveryleast,savehimforlast.Givehimlesstimetotryandtalkmeoutofit.”
“Okay,”hesays.“But,youknow,you’rebothhisparents.Itwouldseemalittleone-sidedifyouweretheonlyonewhoparticipated.”
“Iknow.Iknowhowitlooks.”
“Itlooksbad.Itlookslike,youknow,likehedoesn’twanttohelp.”
“AndpeoplesayitlookslikeI’mexploitingmymissingsonforfame,”Isay.“SoI’vejustlearnednottocarewhatpeoplethinkitlookslike.Everyonegrievesindifferentways.”
I’mremindedagainofthatdockhandbackinBeaufort;hiswateryeyesaswewatchedthatdolphinpushingherdeadbabyaroundtheharborwithhernose.
“Thatmusthavebeenhard,”Waylonsays,shiftinggears.“Youtwo,tryingtodealwiththistogether…but,youknow,onyourown.”
Ilookupathim,thatsimpleexplanationtearingaholethroughmychest.Becausethat’sexactlywhatitfeltlike:thetwoofus,together,butalsocompletelyalone.
“Yeah,”Isay,myfingershoveringoverBen’sring,stilltuckeddiscreetlybeneathmyshirt.“Wejusthandleditdifferently,youknow?Ihadahardtimesleeping.Ihadahardtimedoinganything,really.AllIwantedtodowasbeinvolvedinthecase,ineverylittledetail.AndBen…well,Idon’tknow.”
Iforcemyselftoswallow,takeadeepbreath.Icanfeelmyeyestightening;thebloodvesselssqueezing.
“HethinksIcouldbedoingmoreharmthangood,goingoutonmyownlikethis.Andheisn’talone,either.Otherpeoplethinkthat,too.”
IthinkaboutDetectiveDozier;thedisapprovalinhistoneashementionedmykeynote—no,myperformance
“ThedetectivestoldusafteracouplemonthsthatMasonprobablywouldn’tbefoundalive,”Icontinue.“That,statisticallyspeaking,theyweremorelikelytofind…remains,probably.”
Waylonissilent,anapologyinhiseyes.
“Theyadvisedwetrytofindawaytomakepeacewithit,butIjustcouldn’t.Icouldn’tgiveuplikethat.”
“Idon’tthinkanyoneshouldexpectyouto.”
“No,”Isay,shakingmyhead.“Idon’tthinkso,either.ButBenwantedtotry,youknow.Trytomakepeacewithit.NotmoveonfromMason,obviously,butmoveforward.Hetriedtothrowusintotherapy,grief-counselinggroups,andIjustwasn’treadyforthat.Imadeitprettyhardforhim.”
Waylonnods,glancingatthecollageofpicturesonthewall:myentirehomeapersistentandpainfulreminderofeverythingthatwastakenfromus.Everythingwelost.
“Whendidyoustartdoingthat?”heasks,gesturingtoit.
“Afewweeksafterhewastaken,Iguess.Whentheofficialinvestigationstartedtoslowdown.”
Irememberfeelingsurprisedathoweasyitwasforeveryonearoundmetomoveon.ThefirsttalkIgavewasinahighschoolgymnasium,justdaysafterthenewshadbroken.BenandIhadsetupthechairsourselves,acoupledozenmetalfoldingonesorganizedinrows,andithadbeenpacked—theentirecityshowedup,bodiescrammedtightastheyleanedagainstthetumblingmats,leechingontomyeveryword.Theywerewillingtodoanythingtohelp,anything,butwhenIheldanotheroneaweeklater,thecrowdhadvisiblyshrunk.Wehadvolunteerswhotrulycared,forawhile,manningtiplinesandpassingoutfliers,butitonlytookafewmonthsfortheintriguetofadeforthem,too.Forthemtotire,attachthemselvestosomeotherstory,likeourshadexpiredandsuddenlymadethemsick.ThatwasthefirsttimeIeverconsideredrespondingtothetruecrimerequestspilingupinmyInbox.EventhoughIdidn’tunderstandit—theirfascinationwithviolence,withpain—atleasttheycared
“Itstartedsmall,”Isay,standingupandwalkingcloser.“Justmovingafewthingsfromthetabletothewall,soIcouldseeitallmoreclearly.”
Andthenithadspread,takingonalifeofitsown.Creepingtowardthecorners,mutatingandexpandingandgrowinglikeatumorthathadspiraledoutofcontrol.
“Hasitgottenyouanywhere?”
“Intotrouble,mostly.”
“Howso?”
Isighasmyeyesscanitall.Thearticles,thepictures.Thegiantmapofthecity,rememberingtheinitialshockIfeltwhenIfinishedstickinginthoselittlerubypins,steppedback,andtookitallin.
“Thesearesexoffenders,”Isay,pointingtothepins.I’llneverforgettherisingdreadasIsawthemsprawledoutacrossourstreet,ourneighborhood,likeaswarmofinsectseruptingfromabeatenhive.Thewaytheyseemedtomultiplyoutwardandspreadlikecanceruntiltheentirethingwasbleedingred.“Everysingleregisteredsexoffenderwithinthirtymiles.”
“Iimaginetheywereinterviewed,right?”
“Sure,theseriousones,”Isay,pointingtothespreadsheetprintedoutandtackednexttoit.Myeyesskimdownthegridofnamesandaddresses,pageafterpageafterpage.“Criminalsexualmisconductwithminors,childpornography,rape.Buttherearehundredsofthem.Thousands.Thecopsbarelyevenscratchedthesurface.”
Waylonstandsupandstepscloser,too,probablythinkingthesamethingIwasthefirsttimeIletittrulysinkin:themagnitudeofit.They’reeverywhere,itseems.Ourneighbors,coworkers.Friends.
“Whatdidyoudo?”heasks,barelyawhisper.
I’mquiet,stilleyingthoselittleredpins.MymindonDetectiveDozieratthevigilandthewayhehadsunkbackintothetrees,watching.
“Iwouldadviseyounottodoanythingimpulsive.”
“Therewasthisoldermanwhousedtoworkatthegrocerystore,”Isayatlast,acolddetachmentinmyvoice.“HealwayslikedMason.Heusedtokeepthesestickersinhisapronpocketsandhandthemtothekidsatcheckout.Hewassweet.Ilikedhim.Ialwaysmadeitapointtogetinhisline,youknow,makesmalltalk…untilIfoundhisnameonthelist.”
Waylonisquiet,lettingmecontinue.
“ItoldDozier,buthewouldn’tlisten.Hesaiditwasn’tenough—alessercharge,noprobablecause—andatthatpointIjustfeltlikeeveryonehadstoppedtrying,stoppedcaring,soIwenttothestoreonenightandconfrontedhimmyself.”
Istillrememberthelookonhisface:thewrinklesinhischeeksstretchingwhenhesawmeandsmiled;hisarmsoutstretchedlikehewasgoinginforahug.Andthen:theterror.Icouldn’tstopmyself.AssoonasIsawhim,Icouldn’tstop.Thescreaming,thethrashing.Myfistsflyingandconnectingwithanythingtheycouldfinduntiltheotheremployeeswereabletoshakeofftheshockandrushover,holdmeback.
“Itwaspublicindecency,”Icontinue,myeyesstilldrillingintothewall.Ican’tbringmyselftolookatWaylonandseethejudgmentthere.“Apparently,hehadstumbledbehindsomebaraftertoomanydrinksandpeedinfrontofacop.Thatwasit.”
I’llneverforgethisbodyonthefloor,atremblingballoflimbs.Lookingback,Idon’tevenknowifItrulybelieveditwashim.MaybeIdid—maybesomesmallpartofmehadseenthewayhelookedatMason,thosestickersinhispockets,andassumedtheworst—ormaybeIwasjustlookingforsomeonetoblame.Anoutletfortheangerthathadbeenroilinginsideme.
Ithadbeentheresolong,itwasboundtoboilover.
“Anymotherwouldhavedonethesamething,”Waylonsaysatlast,butitsoundslikeacourtesy.Likehecan’tthinkofanythingelsetosay.
“Yeah,well,hedidn’tpresscharges,sothecopswenteasyonme,butthey’veneverreallywantedmearoundafterthat,”Icontinue.“Benmovedoutshortlyafter.Iguessitwashisfinalstraw.”
Thehouseisuncomfortablyquiet,andIstarttochewonmynailtogivemyhandssomethingtodo.Ifeelarip,asharpsting.Tastebloodonmytonguefromwheremycuticletore.
“Whydoyoudothisforaliving?”Iaskatlast,anexasperatedlaughescapingmylips.“Howcanyoupossiblystandit,listeningtothesestoriesoverandoveragain?Ialwaysthinkaboutthat,youknow,whenIgotothoseconventions.Iaskmyselfhowpeoplecouldpossiblygetenjoymentoutoflisteningtoastorylikethat.Likemine.”
“Oh,yeah,”Waylonsays,pushingaloosestrandofhairawayfromhisforehead,embarrassed.“Igotintoitbecause,uh,becauseofmysister’smurder,actually.”
Hiswordssendaknifethroughmychest.Iinhale,tryingtobreathethroughthatfamiliar,painfultwisting.
Mysister’smurder.
“I’msosorry,”Isay.“Ididn’tmean—”
“No,it’sfine,”hesays.“Igetit.It’samorbidcareer.”
“Whathappenedtoher?”Itreadlightly,realizingnowthatafterallofourencounterstogether—afterourconversationontheairplane,ouremailexchanges,ourmealatFramboise,andnowthis—IhaveneverstoppedtowonderwhatWaylon’sstoryis.I’vebeensousedtobeingtheonewithataletotell,theonewithatragedy,thatI’venevereventhoughttoask.“Yoursister?”
Waylonshrugs,shootsmeasadlittlesmile.
“That’sthequestion,”hesays.“TheonecaseI’vebeenworkingonsinceIwastwenty-threeyearsold.”
Thesunissinkingquicklynow,andIglanceoutside,watchingtheskybrightenintoanunnaturalorangeonelasttimebeforethelightisboundtodisappearagain.Withthatonesingleadmission,Irealizethat,forthefirsttimeinthreehundredandsixty-eightdays,I’mnotapproachingtheimpendingnightwiththesamesenseofdreadthatalwayscomeswhenit’stimetobuckleup,settlein.Rideoutthelong,lonelyhourswithnothingbutmythoughts,mymemories.Mymind.
Instead,Ifeelhope.
Ifeelit,Ireallydo.Justthefaintestlittleglimmer,butit’sthere.BecausenowIunderstandsomethingcrucial.IunderstandthatWaylonandImaybemorealikethanIthought.Bothofusarevictimsoftheviolence,spendingourlivesinthedarksearchingblindlyforanswers;bothofustaintedbytragedy,definedbyourloss,unabletodowhateveryonekeepstellingmetodo:justmovepastit,moveon.
Iunderstandthat,unliketheothers—unlikethedetectivesandtheneighborsandthetruecrimeenthusiasts—thisisn’tjustbusinessforhim.Itisn’tentertainment.Itisn’twork.
Forhim,it’spersonal.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
THEN
Ourairconditionerdiedthismorning.Itwasoverworked,Momsaid.It’stoohot.
Forsomereason,thatremindedmeofthehorse-drawncarriageswesometimesseedowntown,thehorses’thickbodiespullingtheweightofadozenpeopleinoversizedwagons.Theheatofthesunontheirnecks,musclesbulging.Bitsintheirmouths,andthesmellofmanurebakingontheconcrete.Wehadseenonecollapseonce,stumbleinthemiddleofthestreetandfalltoitsknees.Thetouristshadscreamedasthecoachmanjumpeddown,priedopenitsjaws,andpouredabottleofwaterdownitsthroatasbloodoozedfromagashinitslegandpooledbetweenthecobblestones.
“Isitdead?”Margarethadasked,lookingupatmymother.Thehorse’sbellywasmoving,butjustbarely:slow,heavingbreathsthatmadeitsnostrilsflare.
“No,it’snotdead,”shehadsaid,turningusaround,handsonournecksassheledusintheoppositedirection.“It’sjusttoohot.It’soverworked.It’s…tired.”
MargaretandIaresittingback-to-backonthehardwoodfloorofmymother’sstudionow,hairpulledintoponytails,thoughIcanfeelmybabycurlsescapingthegripoftheelasticandgluingthemselvestomyforehead,stucktomyskinwithsweat.Momputusuphereearlier,settingoutanassortmentofpaintsandblankcanvases,entertainmentthatsheknewcouldlastforhours.Themorningstretchedbyinawarm,slowrhythm,andIcantellbytheshiftingsunthatit’slateafternoonnow,anotherdaygone.
“I’mhot,”Margaretsays,fanningherselfwithherhand.Iturnaroundandseeabeadofsweatdripdownherchest,disappearingdowntheneckofhernightgown.We’reeachwearingoneofmyfather’soldworkshirtsontopofourpajamas,backward,sleevesrolleduptoourelbowstocreatemakeshiftsmocks.
“It’llbefixedsoon,”Isay,feelingthetickleofano-see-umonmyleg,nippingatmyskinwithinvisibleteeth.Ihadswungthepatiodoorsopenearlier,lettinginawarmmarshbreezethatdidnothingbutbringthebugsin.
“Howsoon?”
“Tonight,”Isay.“Maybetomorrow.OnceDadgetshome.”
“Ican’twaitthatlong.”
Iglaceinherdirectionagainandnoticethathercheeksareflushedred,likeshe’sgotafeverorsomething,butIknowit’sjusttheheat:JulyinSouthCarolinaisbrutal.Itcanmakeyoufeelalittlecrazy,likeyou’rebeingcookedalive.
“Canwesleepoutside?”
“No,wecan’tsleepoutside.”
Margaretnods,lookingbackdownatherlatestpainting.It’samessofsquiggles,childishlyabstract,andIfeelmychestsqueezealittle,rememberingherageagain.Herinnocence.
“Youcansleepinmyroom,”Isay,anapologyforsnappingather.“We’llopenthewindow,getthebreezefromthemarsh.It’llbecooleratnight.”
Shesmilesatme,reassured,andbeginstohoistherselfuptogetacleancanvas.
“I’llgetit,”Isay,restingmyhandonherarmandstandingupmyself.“Sittight.”
Istepoverthemilkywaterglassesandoldpaintbrushesstrewnacrossthefloorandwalkacrossthestudiotomymother’seasel.Therearedozensofherpaintingsuphere,almostallofthemofus,likeourownprivategallery:Margaretsittinginacircleofstatuesoutside,holdingateacupintheair;Dadsmokingfrommygrandfather’soldpipe,cloudsofsmokebillowingout.Theblankonesareinastackbythewall,butbeforeIcangetthere,somethingcatchesmyeye.
Istopwalking;there’shalfofanin-progresspaintingpeekingoutbehindtheothers.ImovetowarditandslidethetoponetothesidesoIcanseeitmoreclearly,andwhenIdo,Icanbarelybreathe.
“Izzy?”Margaretsays,sensingthesuddenstillnessintheair,mybodyrigidandunmovingontheothersideoftheroom.“Whatisit?”
Idon’tanswer;Ican’tanswer.I’mstaringatthepainting,fullyinviewnow,awormofworrywrithinginmystomach.It’sourbackyard,thatswathofgreengrassleadingtothegentlehillthatslopesintothecreek.Thelong,woodendockspoolingoutintothewaterandtheoaktreesoneithersideofit,theirgnarledbranchesreachingoutlikewigglingfingers.It’snighttime,themoonhighinthesky,andintheverymiddleofitallisagirl:longbrownhair,whitenightgown,armshangingheavyathersideasshestandsankle-deepinthemarsh.
“Look,”Margaretsays,andIjumpathersuddencloseness.She’sstandingrightnexttomenow,thoughIdidn’tevenrealizeshehadmoved.She’spointingatthepainting,thegirl.“Look,Izzy.It’syou.”
CHAPTERNINETEEN
NOW
Theearlymorningfogisstillburningofftheblacktop,hoveringoverthegroundlikeaghost.Ileavemyhouseatthefirsthintofdawn,decidingtowalkovertotheoldman’shouseinthedaylight.ItonlytakesafewminutesnowthatIknowwhereI’mgoing,andonceIarrive,Isizeupitfromthesidewalk,alittlebrickbungalowthatwouldbeeasytooverlook.It’ssmallerthantheotheronesonthestreet,partiallycoveredinovergrownshrubsandwildmagnoliatreesindesperateneedofatrim.Thepaintischippingoffthesiding,moldgrowingontheconcretesidewalkthatleadstothefrontdoor.
Ontheporch,therockingchairisempty,swayinggentlyinthewind.
Iwatchit,rockingonitsown,andalmostmakemyselfbelievethatIhadinventedtheentireencounter.Inventedhim.There’sjustsomethingaboutthewayhewassittingthere,staringintothedarkness.Thewayhewaslookingatmeasifhedidn’tevenseenmeatall.Istarttowonderifhewasjustafigmentofmyimagination,somekindofglimmerfrommysubconscious,sousedtobeingalonesolateatnightthatitjustsnappeditsfingersandmaterializedsomecompanyoutoftheshadows—becauseifI’mbeinghonest,Ihavedonethatbefore.
Seenthings,heardthings,thatweren’tactuallythere.
Itisamazing,thekindsoftricksthatthemindcanplayonyouaftertwo,three,foursnightswithoutsleep.Thekindsofthingsitcanmakeyoubelieve.Thejarringdingofmydoorbell,butwhenIstepoutontothepatio,seeingitempty;Roscoe’sincessantbarking,butwhenIshoothimalook,findinghimfastasleep.Afuzzyoutlinemovinginmyperipheralvision,gettingcloser,butwhenIsnapuprightandtwistmyhead,openmymouthandbegintoscream,realizingthatit’snothingmorethanthedimafternoonlightmakingshapesoutofanemptycorner.
Thatstill,I’malone.
Butno,Iknowhewasthere.Roscoewasgrowling,staringstraightathim.Ihadseenhimwithmyowntwoeyes,heardthecreakofhisrockingchair.
Ihadspokentohim—hejustdidn’tspeakback.
Iwalkquietlyuptheporchstepsandlookatthechair.Thewoodbeneaththerockerrailsisheavilyworn,thepaintbuffedawayfromyearsofuse,indicatingthatit’sbeeninthatspotforalong,longtime.Iinchcloser,closeenoughtotouchitnow,andtrailmyfingersdownthearmrest,feelingthesplinterywoodonthepadsofmyfingers.IhaveasuddenmemoryofMargaretinthismoment—thewaywewouldsneakintoforbiddenrooms,ourfingersdraggingacrossvarioussurfaces,touchingthingsthatweren’tmeanttobetouched—butthen,likeadream,itleavesmeagain
Ilookdownatthechair,glancingaround,makingsurenobodyiswatching.ThenIturnaroundslowly,loweringmyselfdown.
OnceI’msitting,Irockbackandforthwordlessly,thewayhewas.Ilookoutatthestreet,attheveryspotwhereIwasstandingbefore,andnoticethat,fromthisvantagepoint,Ihavearelativelyclearviewintopartofmybackyard.Youhavetolookinjusttherightspot—alittleclearingbetweensometrees,beneaththestreetlight,pastafence—butthere,rightthere,isthebacksideofmyhouse,thatlittletuftofneglectedgrasslookingevenmoreyellowfromadistance.Onlyafewfeettotheright,obscuredbehindsomebranches,isMason’sbedroomwindow.
Icanfeelmyheartbeatincreasealittle,ahopefulbeatinginmythroat.Maybethatmansawsomething.Maybehewasoutsidethatnight,late,andsawsomeoneinthebackyard,creepingtowardthewindow.Maybehecouldidentifysomeone—
Mythoughtsaremovingsofast,sofrantic,Ialmostdon’thearthegroanofthefrontdooropeningbesideme;thepresenceofsomeonenewsteppingoutside
“Whothefuckareyou?”
Ilookup,startled,andseeamanstandingontheporchbesideme—onlythisman,Irecognize.Ican’trecallhisname,buthisfeaturesarehardtoforget:redhair,latefifties,withfreckledskinandthekindofskinnystaturethatmakeshishipbonesprotrude.Ispoketohimonce—ayearago,now—andIrememberthinkinghewaspolite,friendly,butentirelyunhelpful.
Forgettable,even,untilthisverymoment.
“Hi,”Isay,standingupandrealizingwithastitchofembarrassmentwhatImustlooklike;howstrangeitwouldbetowalkoutsideandfindawomanrockinginyourrockingchair.“I’msosorry,letmeexplain—”
“Jesus,it’syou.”Heseemsrelievedtorecognizeme,butatthesametime,hedoesn’t.Hesighs,runninghishandsthroughhishair,andIwatchasatuftofitflopsbackoverhisforehead.Themotiontriggerssomethinginmeagain;amemorythatIcan’tquiteplace
“Hi,yeah.Sorry,”Isay.“WemetlastyearwhenIwasgoingdoor-to-dooraboutmyson,butIcan’trecallyourname.I’mIsabelle.”
Iholdmyhandout,smiling,andwatchasthemanstaresatme,histhinlipssetinastraightline.It’ssilentforafewseconds,myarmhoveringintheair,andonceitbecomesclearthathe’snotanswering,Iretractit,clearmythroat,andcontinue.
“Listen,Iwasjustwondering:Doesanoldergentlemanlivehere?Theothernight—”
“Getthefuckoffmyporch.”
Istareathim,takenaback,andfullyregisterthewayhe’slookingatmenow,scrutinizingthedarkbagsbeneathmybloodshoteyes.Mytangledhairandthesmudgesoflastnight’smakeupstillcakedtomyashencheeks.Helooksangry,maybeevenafraid,andIsupposehehaseveryrighttobe.
Iwouldbe,too,findingsomeonelurkingthisclosetomyhome.
“I’m…I’msorry,”Isayagain,stumblingovermyselftotryandfindthewords.“I’msorryforjustshowinguplikethis,I’msureIgaveyouascare.It’sjustthattheothernight,Isawsomeone,andIwaswonderingifhemighthaveseensomeone—”
Istop,realizationdawningonmeslowly.Mondaynight,atthevigil.ThatquickflashofcolorinthedistancethatcaughtmyeyeasIwasscanningthecrowd—notunlikeaboboffieryredhairduckingdownlow,weavingitswaythroughthepack.
“WherewereyouonMondaynight?”Iask,eyinghimcarefully.“Wereyoudowntown,bychance?”
“I’mgonnawarnyouonelasttime,”themansays,takingastepcloser.“GetoffmyporchbeforeIcallthecops.”
IthinkbacktowhatDetectiveDoziertoldme:thatsometimes,perpetratorscan’thelpthemselves.Thattheyhavetorevisitthesceneofthecrimeorapublicgathering—likepatrollingthebackofavigil,maybe,orsittingontheporchatnight,staringatawindowtheyonceenteredinthedark.
“Whatisyourname?”Iaskagain,firmerthistime.Myeyesdartpasthisfaceandtowardhisfrontdoor,barelycrackedtorevealasliverofhislivingroom:asplashofbeigecarpetandamustard-coloredcouch.
“You’retrespassing,”hesays,ignoringmyquestion,andItakeinthelittletwitchofhislips,almostlikehe’safraid.“Icouldhaveyouarrestedinasecondafterwhatyoudidtothatotherguy.”
Ifeelaspasminmychestandforcemyselftocontinue.
“Whowasthemanonyourporch?”Iask,ignoringhisthreat.Takinginthewindowsnext,realizingthatthey’reshuttered.Thatallthelightsinsideareoff.“Andwhywereyouatmyson’svigilonMonday?”
“Getoffmyporch.”
“Whycan’tyoujusttalktome?”Iask.“Whatareyouhiding?”
“GO!”hescreams,chargingatmeabit.Itisn’tthreatening,moreofalittlelunge,andsuddenly,despitehowbadlyIwanttolungeback—despitethefactthateverymuscleinmybodyisscreamingatmetopushpasthimandruninside—IthinkagainofDozier’swarning.
“Iwouldadviseyounottodoanythingimpulsive.”
Ithinkofthatmanatthegrocerystore,thewaythingshadescalatedsoquicklythesecondIlostmycool.Icanfeeltheadrenalineinmyarms,mylegs,twitchingatthethoughtoffinallyfindingtheanswersI’mlookingfor—findingMason—butmymindistellingmethatifIdothis,andifI’mwrong,Iwon’tbeabletodoanythingtofindMasonfrominsideajailcell.
“Fine,”Isayatlast,myfingerscurlingintofists.IcanfeelmynailsdiggingintomypalmsasIretreatdownthesteps.“I’mleaving.”
Imakemywaybackhome,myheartracingbythetimeIstepinside.Iimmediatelywalkintomydiningroom,myeyestracingthemap.I’malmostpositiveIwon’tfindapinthere—ifeitherofthosemenwereontheregistry,thisclosetomyhome,I’dalreadyknow—butstill,Ilookattheneighborhood,theareaclearwherehishousewouldbe.Iskimthespreadsheetnext,anyway,lookingfor1742CattyLane:thenumbersIhadseenboltedtotheporchcolumnswhenIhadapproachedthehouse.Iflipthroughthefirstpage,thenthesecond.Thethird,fourth,fifth—justincaseIsomehowmissedit.OnlyonceIlookatthemall—everyname,everyaddress—doIdeflatealittle.
He’snotthere.
Igrabmyphoneandnavigatetomyemail,refreshingmyInbox.StillnoresponsefromDozier.ThenIclickovertohiscontactinformationandmakeacall,listeningasthelineringsandgroaningwhenhisvoicemailpicksupinstead.
“Hi,Detective,thisisIsabelleDrake,”Isayoncethelinebeeps.“IsentyouanemailonWednesday,andIjustwantedtomakesureyougotit.”Idrummyfingersagainstthetable,tryingtodecidehowmuchtoreveal.“Ialsohadaquestionaboutoneofmyneighborsat1742CattyLane.Ihadanencounterwithhimthismorningthatwas…unsettling.”
Idecidethat’sgoodfornow.Enoughdetailtomaybepiquehisinterest,prompthimtogetbacktome—Iaskedhimaquestion,afterall,whichrequiresaresponse—butnottoomuch.
“Okay,thanks,”Isay.“Talktoyousoon.”
Idropmyarms,exhalingslowlyasIcranemyneckback,staringattheceiling.Justasmyeyesclose,Ifeelmyphonestarttovibrateinmyhand,andIsnapthembackopen,hopingtoseeDozier’snameonthescreen.
Instead,it’satextfromKasey.
“Goodtoseeyoutheothernight,”itreads.“Offerstillstands.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
TheGritalwaysthrewextravagantholidayparties—or,rather,Benalwaysthrewextravagantholidayparties—andmyfirstyear,almosttwomonthsintomyemployment,wewenttoSkyHigh,oneofSavannah’snicerrooftoprestaurants,withstringlightsilluminatingthediningareaandaperfectviewoftheriverboatsastheyslidbeneaththebridge.
I’vebeenthinkingaboutthatnighteversinceIranintoKaseyatthevigil:thetwoofusadornedinsequinsandsippingchampagnewhileoverlookingthebridge,itstwocablepeaksswathedinlightsresemblingoversizedChristmastreesinthedark.Wewerestandingbeneathaheatertogether,afauxfurshawlwrappedaroundmyshoulders,whenBenwalkedinwithawomanonhisarm.
“That’sAllison,”Kaseyhadsaid,swirlingthechampagneinherfluteandwatchingthelittlebubblesrisetothesurface.“Ben’swife.”
ThatwasthefirsttimeIhadheardhername:Allison.AllisonDrake.IhadseenpicturesofherinBen’soffice,ofcourse,onthatveryfirstdaywhenIhadsteppedinside.Picturesofthetwoofthem,together,intertwinedonthehullofasailboatorsprawledoutlazilyinafieldoflush,greengrass.Butinthosepictures,despitethefactthatIknewshewasreal—logically,ofcourse,Iknewshewasreal—shewasstillonlytwo-dimensionaltome.IknewsheexistedinthesamewayIknewrare,exoticanimalsexistedfromthepagesofNationalGeographic—shewasaconcept,acuriosity,nothingmorethancolorfulinkslatheredacrossglossypaper.EverythingIthoughtaboutherhadbeenimagined,concoctedinmyownmindratherthanbasedonanytruthorfact.Icouldn’thearthechirpyhumofherlaughorsmellthefloralperfumethatseemedtoswirlbeneathmynostrilsthesecondshesteppedoutAllison,orhairthatbouncedorhipsthatswayedoranyoftheotherhumanthingsaboutherthatsuddenlyseemedtohitmesohard.
“She’spretty,”Isaid.Andshewas.Herfeaturesweredark,likemine—chestnuthair,browneyes,oliveskin—thoughshewaswearingaformfittingblackdresswithaslittotheknee,whichmademygoldsequinsseemchildishincomparison.Shewastallandnaturallyskinny,herbarearmstonedinjusttherightplaces.Hereyeswingedwithblackliner,andherlipsadeep,bloodyred.“Whatdoesshedo?”
“Idon’tthinkshedoesanything,”Kaseysaid.“Shestaysathome.”
“Likeastay-at-homemother?”Ifeltmychestlurch,thechampagnethreateningtoclawbackupmythroat.IneverconsideredthepossibilitythatBenmighthavekids.
“No,nokids.Shejuststayshome.Imean,whynot,right?Hispaycheckmustbefat.”
“Idon’tknow,”Isaid.“Thatseems…boring.”
Kaseyshrugged.“Wouldyouworkifyoudidn’thaveto?”
Iwatchedastheyfloatedfrompersontoperson,givingouthandshakesandhugs.Benwaswearingafittednavysuit,lookingmorehandsomethanever,andIcouldbarelypeelmyeyesfromhim.Thewayheeffortlesslymingledwithmycoworkersandtheirplus-ones;thewayheseemedtosayjusttherightthingtoeverysingleperson,makingthemsmileorlaughornodalonginagreement.AndespeciallythewayheheldAllison,hishandonthesmallofherback,guidingheralongeverywherehewent.
“I’mgettingarefill,”Kaseyhadsaid,knockingherchampagnebackandtakingofftowardthebar.Ihadnodded,barelyevenregisteringhervoice,untilIfoundmyselfstandingcompletelyaloneastheymadetheirwaytowardme.IwassuddenlyawareofhowpainfullysolitaryImusthaveseemedinthatmoment:standingalonebeneathaspaceheater,noplus-onetorubmygoose-bumpedarmsorchivalrouslydrapetheirsuitjacketovermyshoulders.
“Isabelle,”Benhadsaidasheambledup,flashinghisteeththroughthatperfectlysymmetricalgrin.“Areyouenjoyingyourself?”
“Iam,”Isaid,tryingtomakeitconvincing.“Thisisagreatparty.Thankyouforthrowingit.”
IwaitedforhimtointroducemetoAllison,orforhertointroduceherself,butinstead,astubbornsilencesettledoverthethreeofus.Myeyesdartedaround,lookingforKaseytosaveme,butshewasnowheretobefound.
“YoumustbeAllison,”Isaidatlast,cavingfirst.Ithrustmyhandoutinherdirectionwithtoomucheagerness.“It’slovelytomeetyou.”
“Likewise,”shesaid,placingherdaintyhandinmine.“AndI’msorry,Ihatetorunoffonyousosuddenly,butIneedtofindtherestroom—”Sheleanedinclose,hermouthtomyear,andIcouldsmellthewarmspearmintofmouthwashonherbreath.“Tobequitehonest,thisdresssqueezesmeinallthewrongplaces.Itwasahorriblechoice.”
Sheleanedbackandwinkedinmydirection,flashingasmileassheplacedahandonherstomach.Itwasoneofthoseself-deprecatingjabsthatperfectpeopledo—tryingtocallattentiontoatummybulgeorphysicalflawthatjustisn’tthere—andIsmiledback,feelingconflicted.Ontheonehand,Ifeltastrangesenseofsatisfactionatbeingtheoneshechosetosharethissecretwith—atthetwoofushavinghadamoment—butontheotherhand,Ihatedhownicesheseemed.Itmademefeelinfinitelyworse.
IwatchedassheplacedonehandonBen’scheekwhilehandinghimherglasswiththeotherbeforesteppingawayandglidingtowardtherestaurant.Myeyestrailedherallthewayacrosstherooftopuntilshedisappearedinside,butwhenIturnedbackaround,Ben’seyeswereonme.
“So,howareyouenjoyingTheGrit?”heasked.“Isiteverythingyouhopeditwouldbe?”
Icouldtellfromhisexpression—hisforeheadtiltedintomine,eyebrowsraised—thathewasalludingtothatnight,ournight,attheoysterroast.Thathewasacknowledgingwhathappenedbetweenusfortheveryfirsttime.Therehadbeenothermoments,though.Everynowandthen,justasIwouldbestartingtothinkthatmymemoryofthatnightwassomehowwrong—thatmaybemymindhadfabricatedthewayhehadlookedatme,thatsubtletwitchinhislipsasIpulledback;thatmaybethebeersittingstaleinmystomachhadcontortedtheeveningintosomethingitjustwasn’t—littleglimmersoftruthwouldshinethrough,likethesunpeekingoutfrombehindacloudofsmog.Hewouldassignmeastoryaboutabladesmithwhomadeartisanoysterknives,theirhandleshandcraftedoutofblackwalnutandmotherof
Itwaslikehewasshootingmeaninvisiblewinkfromacrosstheroom,onethatonlyIcouldsee.
“Everythingandmore.”
IknewIshouldn’thavesaidit—oratleast,notlikethat.IknewwhatIwasinsinuating,howhewouldtakeit:thathewaseverything,tome,andmore.Buttherewassomethingaboutknowingthatthetwoofusweresharingamemoryinthatmoment,envelopedinaseaofotherpeoplewhowouldn’tunderstand,thatmademefeelmoredrawntohimthaneverbefore.
ItwastheknowledgethathehadAllison—beautiful,charming,nice,funnyAllison—andhestillseemedtohaveaninterestinmethatmademefeelbothlightandairyandsimultaneouslysickwithdreadattheexactsametime.
Intruth,Ididn’twanttofeelthatwayabouthim.Honestly,Ididn’t.Thatjob:Itwasmydream.Itwasmine,finally,andIdidn’twanttodoanythingtogivethatup.Sointheweeksthatfollowed,everytimeIpassedhisoffice,myeyeswouldskipoverhisdoor,likeastonetossedoveraglassyriver.Itriedtofocus.Itriedtopretenditwasn’thimsittingontheothersideofit.Itriedtoforget.Butdeepdown,Iknewitwastoolate.IknewtherewasnothingIcoulddotostopit.Itwasinevitable,BenandI.Wehadchemistry.Areactionhadstarted—aspark,ignited—andbothofuswouldsoonbepursingourlipsandblowingonitgently,givingitlife.
Strengtheningakindlingintoafull-blownfire.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
IignoreKasey’stextanddecidetoshootamessageofftoWayloninstead.Afterall,ifDozierwon’thelpmelookintomyneighborandthatmanonhisporch,IknowWaylonwill.
“Busy?”Itext,andwithinseconds,myphoneisringing,hisnameonthescreen.
“Hey,”Ianswer,myvoiceunusuallybright.“Thatwasquick.”
“Yeah,IwasjustwonderingifIcouldswingbyonmywayoutoftown.Saygoodbye.”
“Goodbye?”Iask,paniccreepingintomyvoice.
“It’sFriday,”hesays,hesitating.“Ihadmyhoteluntiltheweekend.Ineedtoheadhome.”
“Oh,”Isay,mychestdeflating.“Right.Butwe’renot…we’renotdonehere,right?Youhaven’tchangedyourmind—?”
Thethoughtmakesmefeelsuddenlyfrantic:theideaof,afterlosingeverythingthatI’vealreadylost,nowlosingthis.Ofcourse,itwouldn’tbethefirsttimeanattemptatanswersleftmewithnothing,butforsomereason,thisonefeelsdifferent,important.ThemostimportantthingIhaveleft.
“No,no,”hesaysquickly.“Ofcoursenot.I’llcontinuedoingmyworkfromhome,getsomeinterviewsinoverthephone.We’llbeintouch,andI’dliketocomeback…maybeinafewweeks?”
Thelinegoesquiet,likeWayloniswaitingformetosaysomething.
“Ijustcan’t,youknow,stayhereindefinitely,”hesaysatlast,soundingembarrassed.“Ihavesomeadvertisermoney,butotherthanthat,I’mself-funded.Thesehotelsaren’tcheap.”
“Stayhere.”IinterrupthimbeforeIcanevenrealizewhatI’mdoing,whatI’msaying.“Youcanstaywithme.Inmyguestroom.”
Thelineisquietforabeattoolong.
“That’sreallygenerous,”hesaysatlast.“ButIcan’t…Ican’tdothat.Idon’twanttoimpose—”
“It’snotanimposition,really.”Mymindisspinningasthewordscomeout;Iknowthisisabadidea,butstill,Ican’tstop.ItremindsmeofthatfirstnightwithBenonthewater;thelieabouttheoyster-shuckerthatIhadjustblurtedoutofnowherebecauseIwastiredofbeingalone.“Ihavethiswholehousetomyself.Itdoesn’tmakesenseforyoutospendyourownmoneywhenIhaveallthisspace.”
Waylonisquietagain,andIcanalmosthearhimthinking.Tryingtofindanexcuse,maybe.AkindwaytotellmethatwhatI’msuggestingiscrazy—webarelyevenknoweachother.We’repracticallystrangers,heandI.Iknowthere’sanairofdesperationinmyvoice,andonsomelevel,Iwanttoopenmymouthandreeltheofferbackin—tellhimthathe’sright,thatwecandoeverythingweneedtodooverthephone—butonanother,deeper,level,Idon’twanthimtoleave.
Idon’twanttobealone.Notnow.Notagain.
“Okay,”hesaysatlast.“Okay,yeah,ifyoureallydon’tmind.”
“Idon’tmind,”Isay,amixtureofreliefanddreadfloodingthroughme.Butstill,thethoughtofanotherpersoninmyhouse,anotherlife,makestheweightonmychestreleasejustslightly.“Whydon’tyoucomeoverandunpack?Makeyourselfathome.”
Wehangup,andIwalkintothekitchen,openingthefridgeandscanningtheinside.Ofcourse,Iknowwhatit’sliketoshareaspacewithaman,butI’velivedaloneforsixmonthsnow,andtherearethingsthatwe’llneedtoworkout:thingslikegroceriesandcookingandrefrigeratorspaceandprivacy;howlonghe’sstaying,what’sacceptable.What’snot.Imakeamentalnotetoclearoutsomespaceinthepantryforhimwhenmyeyescatchthestackofmailstillsittingonthecounter.
Inoticemyparent’scardagain,thatcheckstillsittinguntouchedontop.Iwalkoverandpickitup,eyingthelittlebouquetofdaisiesonthecover.Inside,it’scompletelyblank.
Fitting,Ithink,tossingitintothetrash.We’veneverquiteknownwhattosaytoeachother,myparentsandI.Notforawhile,anyway.
Ipickupthechecknextandfolditinhalf,stuffinginintomypurse.IknowI’lldeposititeventually—I’llhavetosoon,withnorealcashcomingin—butuntilthen,Idon’twanttolookatit.Idon’twanttothinkaboutit.Itfeelslikebloodmoneytome.Likeapaymentforthisprolongedsilence—onlyIknowitisn’tmysilencethey’rebuying.
It’stheirs.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
THEN
Margaretclambersintobedfirst,herhairwetandsmellingoflavendershampoo.Wehadacoldbathtonight,loweringourselvesingently,ourlegspricklingwhentheicewaterhitourskin.
“Howmuchlonger?”Margaretasked.Dadhadbeentinkeringwiththeairconditionersincehegothomeafewhoursearlier,butstill,itwasn’tfixed.Icouldhearhimmutteringcusswordsbeneathhisbreathasheslammedaroundvarioustools,thesleevesofhisworkshirtrolledtohiselbows.Hiscollardampwithsweat.“It’ssohot.”
Momturnedtousthen,herelbowrestingontheedgeofthetub.Hercurlswereinaponytaildrapedoveroneshoulder,theendsswirlingandstickingtothesweatonherchest.ItremindedmeofthealgaethatIsometimessawgrowingonthebottomofthedock,stringyandgreen,likestrandsofhairpulsingwiththewaves.WhenIwasyounger,Iusedtothinktherewasabodystuckbeneathit,mollusksforskin.
“Notmuchlonger,”shesaid,trailingherfingersalongthesurfaceofthebathwater.Shescoopedupahandfulofsuds,clumpedtogetherlikeatumbleweedofseafoamcoastingacrossthebeachonaparticularlywindyday.“We’llbecomfortablesoon.”
“Bymorning?”
“Sure.”Shesmiled.“Bymorning.”
Wegotoutofthebathandputonourmatchingnightgowns,littleyellowdaisies,oursweatimmediatelypushingbackupthroughourpores,skinlikesqueezedsponges.Theheatisoppressivetonight,especiallyinside.Itmakestheentirehousefeellikeanoven.Likewe’retrappedinit.
MargaretplopsontopofthemattressnowwhileMomripsoffthecomforterandtossesittothefloor.Iwalkovertothewindow,unlatchingthelockandhoistingitopen.Immediately,Ismellthemarsh,thatprehistoricstink,butitisn’tasstrongasitnormallyis.Thewateristwinklinginourbackyard,deeperthanusual,andthat’swhenInoticeafullmoonreflectingoffthesurfacelikethere’ssomekindoforbsubmergedunderneath.Theintensityofitismaskingouryardinaneeriekindofglow—somehowbothdarkandbrightattheexactsametime—andIrememberthatDadhadtoldmeaboutthisonce.It’scalledaspringtide.Whentheearth,moon,andsunallfindthemselvesinperfectalignment,somethingextremehappens.
IturnaroundandfindMargaretnestledinbed,herbodylikeapillbug,curlinginonitself.Shelookssosmalllikethat,socompact.Iknowthatsleepingtogetherwillonlymakeushotter,bodyheatradiating,butIalsoknowthatMargaret’smindisherownworstenemy.Shefeelssafestinthecompanyofothers.
“Don’tforgettosayyourprayers,”Momsaysnow,sittingontheedgeofthemattress.Islideintobedbesideher,alreadyfeelingtheheatfromMargaret’slimbssearingintothesheets.Shehasherdollinherarms,thoseunblinkingeyesstaringstraightintomysoul.“Mytwobeautifulgirls.”
“YouforgotEllie,”Margaretsays,lowerlipjuttingout.
Ilookupatmymomandregisterherexpression—hertiredeyesanddroopingsmile;thosethin,delicatefingersthatrisetohersweat-dottedliplikeshe’stryingtotampsomethingdown,keepitfromescaping.
“Yes,well,”shesays,clearingherthroat.“Ofcoursewecan’tforgetaboutEllie.”
Margaretsmilesthen,pinchinghereyesshutandplacingherpalmstogether,fingersstifflikethey’restucktogetherwithglue.
“NowIlaymedowntosleep,IpraytheLordmysoultokeep.”
Iglanceoveratthethermostatglowinginthecorner,watchingasthedegreestickupward—eighty-four,eighty-five,eighty-six—wonderinghowhighitcouldgo.Howmuchmorewecouldpossiblytake.
ThenIlookbackoveratMargaret,hereyesstillshut.
“IfIshoulddiebeforeIwake,IpraytheLordmysoultotake.”
Mymothersmiles,kissesusonourforeheads,andclicksoffmybedsidelampbeforestandingupandwalkingintothehallway.Theroomisenvelopedindarknessnow,theshroudofnight,butI’mstilllookingatMargaret.Atthewaythemoonlightisstreaminginthroughthewindowlikeaspotlight,castingitsglowdirectlyonher.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
NOW
Atfirst,myhousefeltstrangewithWayloninit,thecomfortablecompanionshipwebuiltupthisweekseemingtodissolveassoonashesteppedthroughthedoor.Wespentthefirstcoupleofhoursdancingaroundeachother,sidesteppingoneanother,likelate-nightloverswhoforgoteachother’snames.
He’sofferedtocookdinnertonight,athank-you,Ithink,foropeningupmyhome.Hewentoutforgroceriesearlier,andnowthathe’sstartedcooking,we’veslippedbackintothateasycamaraderieI’vefeltallweek.Ithinkit’sthewayI’mkickedbackinthekitchen,watchingashehopsaround,tendingtothebubblingskilletsandboilingwater.Cookingfeelslikeachorewhenit’sdoneoutofnecessity—notforthetasteorpresentation,butforsurvivalalone—butwhenyouthrowanotherpersonintothemix,itturnsintoanactivity,apastime.Enjoyable,even.Anintimacyinthemundane.
“Redorwhite?”
Waylonpullstwobottlesofwineoutofalargepaperbag,hoistingbothintotheair.Ipointtothered,andhenods,uncorksthebottle,andglugsahealthyamountintoanemptywineglass,pushingitinmydirection
“Thankyou,”Isay,takingitbythestem.Arelaxedsilencesettlesbetweenusasheunloadstherestofthegroceries,andIcan’thelpbutthinkabouthowwemetonthatairplane;thebizarrejuxtapositionofthenandnow.Ineverwouldhaveimaginedthatinjustoneweek,we’dsomehowfindourselveshere:nolongerstrangers,butpartners.Maybeevenfriends.
“Whatwasthecaseyousolved?”Iask,suddenlyremembering.“Youmentionedthatyousolvedacoldcase.Ontheplane.”
“Ohyeah,”hesays.“Anothermissingchild.”
Hedivertshiseyesashechopsafewclovesofgarlic,andIwonderifhe’savoidingmygazeforareason.IfheknowsthatwhatevercomesnextissomethingIwon’twanttohear.
“Thecasewasgoingonthirtyyears,”hecontinuesafteraprolongedsilence.“Thefamilyhadnoanswers.Imean,none.Nocluewhathappened.Butwewereabletofindout.”
“Andwhathappened?”
Helooksatme,finally,anapologyinhiseyes.
“Shedied,”hesaysinmatter-of-factnumbness.“Shewastakenbyatowncrossingguard.Keptinhisbasementforafewmonthsbeforehekilledherandburiedherinthewoods.”
Iswallow,myeyesdartingovertothewindow,inthedirectionofmyneighbor’shouse.
“Howdidyoufindhim?”
“Wefoundawitness,”Waylonsays,pouringhimselfaglassnow,too.“Anotherkidwhoactuallysawhergettaken.Hewasterrifiedatthetime—hewas,like,seven—sohenevercameforward.Italkedtoeverybodyinthattown,everybody,andfinally,Ifoundhim.”
“So,what,thecopsjustbelievedthethirty-year-oldtestimonyofasecond-grader?”
“No,”hesays,sighing.“ButIgavethemthetip,andtheywereabletogetawarrant.Theysearchedhishouse—GuyRooney,washisname.He’dbeenlivinginthesameplacehisentireadultlife,eversincehegotdivorcedintheseventies,andtheyfoundsomeofher…things…inhisbasement.Thingshewaskeeping.”
Inod,chewingontheinsideofmycheek,stillstaringoutthewindow.Theskyisbeginningtomorphcolorsnow,aslatheringofblackandblue,likeajuicybruise.
“Heconfessedonthespot,”Wayloncontinues.“Broughtthecopstothewoods,almostlikehewasrelievedtogetcaught.Getitoffhischest.Allthoseyearslater,herememberedexactlywhereshewas.Whereheburiedher.”
“Andnobodyhadanyidea?”Iask.“Thatthatwasgoingoninhishouse?”
“Noneatall,”Waylonsays.“That’swhat’ssoterrifying.Heandhisexwereongreatterms,co-parentedtheirkids.Sheevensremembersbeingoverthereonceandnoticingthatthebasementdoorwaspadlocked.Thegirlwasprobablystilldownthere…but,youknow,sheneverthoughtanythingofit.”
Ishudder,tryingnottowonderwhatwouldbeworse:noresolutiontoMason’scase,oraresolutionlikethat.Thestorymakesmeevenmorecuriousaboutmyneighborandthatmanonhisporch;therehastobeareasonwhyheseemedsoguardedthismorning.Whyhedidn’twantmegoingnearhishouse.Whytheybothrefusedtospeaktome,andwhyhe
“Butthat’senoughaboutthat,”Wayloncontinues,changingthesubject.“Let’seatfirst.Ihopeyoulikechickenmarsala.It’smyspecialty.”
“Youhaveaspecialty?”Iask,finallytippingmyglassbackandtakingadrink.I’mstilltryingtofigureouthowtointroducethetopicofmyneighbor;Iknowthatwithoutanyconcreteevidence,aspotontheregistry,orevenaname,it’sreallynothingmorethanafeelingatthispoint.Aninstinct.“Don’taskmetocookforyou,then.Myspecialtyisspaghetti.ChickennuggetswhenI’mfeelingfancy.”
Waylonlooksatmeandsmiles,butit’sasadkindofsmile.He’sthinkingofMason,I’msure.ThetypesofdinnersIusedtomakeforhim:cut-uphotdogsandKraftmacaroniandcheese,tinylittlefingerfoodsservedonplastictrayswithcubbyholesmeanttokeepthemfromtouching.
“Familyrecipe,Ishouldsay,”hecontinues.“Ican’ttaketoomuchcredit.I’mItalian.”
“Italian,”Irepeat,fidgetingwiththeglass.“I’mnotquitesurewhatIam,tobehonest.Southern?Doesthatcount?”
“Ithinkitdoes.”Hegrabsaskilletandshakesitaroundabit,fillingthekitchenwiththearomaofgarlicandoliveoil,oreganoandshallotsandsalt.“Yourfamilyhasalwaysbeenfromaroundhere,then?”
Ilookupathim.Everytimehementionsmypast,myfamily,it’sinsuchacasualmanner—likehedoesn’tcareaboutgettingtoknowthestory,butinstead,hejustcaresaboutgettingtoknowme.Ican’ttellifit’sgenuineyet,ifhereallydoesn’tknow,orifhe’sjustgoodatfaking.I’dliketofindout.
“Yeah,”Isay.“ThoughI’msureyoualreadyknewthat.”
Helooksthrownoff,likehe’sabouttoapologize,butbeforehecan,Iletoutalaughandtakeanothersip.
“I’mteasing.Yes,bornandraisedinBeaufort.Mydad,too,andhisdad,andhisdad.Asfarbackasitcango,Ithink.TheRhettswerelikeroyaltyinthattown.”
I’msurehecatchesthewere,theintentionaluseofpasttense,buthedoesn’task.
“WhatbroughtyoutoSavannah?”
“Icamebecauseofajob,”Isay,sinkingdeeperintomychair.I’mgettingcomfortablenow,theeasyback-and-forthofconversationinmyownhomesomethingthathasfeltsofargonelately,soforeign.I’vemissedit.“ButIstayedbecauseofaboy,asstupidasthatsounds.”
“Ben?”
“Yes,Ben.”
“Howdidyoutwogettogether?”
“Thejob.”Ilaugh,glancingoutthewindowagain.Ican’thelpbutthinkaboutthefactthatifsomeonehappenstowalkpastmyhome,glimpsesinsidetheilluminatedwindow,itwon’tbeonebodythey’llseesittingatthetable,eatingalone.It’llbetwo.“Hewasmyboss.I’mawalkingcliché,Iknow.”
“Iwasn’tgonnasayit.”Waylonsmiles.
“Butwedidn’tmeetatwork,”Iadd.“Wemetbeforethen.”
“Soyouquitthejobsoyoucouldbetogether?”
“Prettymuch.Soundsawfulwhenyousayitlikethat.”
“Didyoulikethejob?”
“Ilovedit,”Isay.“ButIlovedhim,too.”
Waylontossessomemushroomsintotheskillet,andithissesbacktolife.We’requietforawhile,andIwatchashecooks,mixingintheMarsalawine,thechickenbroth,theheavycream.Peoplealwaysjudgemewhentheyfindoutaboutthat—andtobehonest,ifithadhappenedtoanyonebutmyself,I’djudgethem,too.Ineverthoughtofmyselfasthatkindofgirl:thekindwhowouldintentionallyshrinkinordertofitneatlyintothelifeofanother.
Butitwasn’tlikethatwithBen.Itwasn’t.
InevereventhoughtofwhatwehadasanaffairThatseemedtoostrongaword—toodirty,toowrong—andIthinkthat’sbecausetherelationshipthathadstartedtounfoldbetweenuswassituatedsomewhereinthemurkyin-between:notwrong,exactly,butdefinitelynotright,either.Itwassomethingthatdefieddefinition,somethingonlywecouldunderstand.Wedidn’tcrossanyconcretelines;wedidn’tbreakanyrules.Weneverhadsex—weneverevenkissed,apartfromthatnightontheriver,which,inmymind,didn’tevencount.
IneverthoughtofmyselfastheotherwomanwithBen,becauseIwasn’t—butatthesametime,Iwas.IknowIwas.
ToAllison,Iwas.OratleastIwouldhavebeen,hadsheknown.
Itseemsnaivenow,maybewillfullyso,butattwenty-fiveyearsold,Ihadpaintedapictureinmymindofwhatcheatingwas,anditpracticallymirroredcabletelevision:cheapmotelroomspaidforincash,burnerphones,sleazyencountersthatendedwithshameandtearsandlies.Butitwasn’tlikethatwithBen,itneverwas.Itwascoffeetogethereverymorning,ourfacespushedcloseinourfavoritecornercafé.Memorizingeachother’sordersandwritingnicknamesonthecup.Itwasinsidejokesandmulti-hourconversations,seamlesslyswitchingbetweenlaid-backsmalltalkandsharingourinnermostthoughts,ourdeepestdesires,asifwehadknowneachotherforyearsinsteadofmonths.Sharingacocktailafterworkwheneveryoneelsehadgonehome,followedbylatenighttextmessages—Ican’tsleep—theunspokensuggestionthathewaslyingawake,nexttoher,butstill,thinkingofme.Inaway,thePGnatureofourrelationshipmadeitevenmoreintimate,morereal.Itwaslikeahighschoollovethatwasn’tyetcheapenedbysex,somethinginnocentandpure.Itdidn’tmakemewonderifthephysicalaspectwasallthathewasreallyafter,allthatmattered.Itdidn’tmakemewonderifhewasjustthatkindofguy—acheater—anditdidn’tforcemetolookatmyselfinthemirroranddecideifIwasproudofwhostaredback.
Atthetime,italmostseemedvaliant,tobehonest:Ben’srefusaltogetphysicallyclose.Likethatveryfirsttimeonthewater,hehadwalkedawayandcontinuedtodosoeverysingletime.Iusedtoobsessoverthewayhismouthwouldhoverinchesfromminewhenweweredeepinconversation;thewayhewouldpullbackslightly,lickinghislips,likehewastryingtotastemeintheairbetweenus.Thewayhewouldglanceoverhisshoulderjustonemoretimewhenhelefttheofficeatnight,eyingmeatmydesk,brandingmeintohisbrainbeforehewenthometoher.Itmadehimseemlikeagoodman,anobleman.
Thekindofmanwho,ifIcouldjusthavehim,wouldalwaystreatmeright.
Theirony,ofcourse,waslostonmethen:thathewasn’tbeingagoodmantoAllison,leadingmeonlikethat.Hewasn’ttreatingherright.Butinmymind,thatwasdifferent.Shewasdifferent.Theydidn’thavewhatwehad.
Theyweren’tus
Ihadunderestimatedonething,though,andthatwasthedangerinlettinghimfilleverysinglecreviceofmylife.Hewaslikewater,poolinghiswayintomyemptyspots.Hewasmypersonallifeandmyprofessionallife—hewaseverythingtome—butIknew,deepdown,thatIwasn’teverythinginreturn.Iknewthatdespitewhatwehad,Allisonstillhadmore.Shehadhislastname,afterall.Hisringonherfinger.Shehadhisbodyinbed.Ihadcometothinkofhimasalibrarybook,enteringmylifeonrentedtime.SomethingthatIcouldenjoyforafewhours,curledupandcomfortable,devouringasmuchofhimaspossiblebeforeourtimewasup.Andbecausehewasn’tmine,Icouldn’tscribbleinthemarginsorwritemynameonthespine;Icouldn’tleavemymarkonhiminanydiscernableway.Sometimes,whenhestoodupfromhisbarstool—theroomaroundusdarkandquiet,hisglassbonedry—Icouldfeelhimdrainingfrommeslowly,likebloodseepingfromanopenwound.
Whenheopenedthedoorandsteppedoutintothenight,Iwasleftwithanoverpoweringemptiness,likeIceasedtoexist.
“Iwentfreelance,”Isaynow,tryingtomakeitsoundexciting.TryingtoconvinceWaylonthatIdo,infact,work.“Igottowriteforallkindsofpublications.Ieventraveledaroundalittle,gottoseedifferentpartsofthecountry.”
Waylonnods,dumpsofaboxofpastaintotheboilingwater.
“Freelanceisnice.”Histoneispolite,poised,likehe’scommentingontheweather.“Workingforyourself.There’safreedomtoit.”
“Benwasmarriedwhenwemet,”Iblurtout,turningtotheside.Idon’twanttoseethelookonhisface,theappraisalinhiseyes.Idon’treallywanttobetellinghimthis—it’snotsomethingI’mproudof—butIknowhe’llfindouteventually,ifhehasn’talready.He’sgoingtobetalkingtomyfriendsandmyneighbors.DetectiveDozier.I’dratherhimfindoutfromme.“ButIdidn’t…wedidn’t,youknow.Weweren’ttogetherwhentheyweretogether.”
“Theygetdivorced?”heasks,hisvoiceclipped.We’regettingpersonalnow,themoodveeringquicklyfromeasysmalltalktosomethingdeeper.Neitherofusislookingattheother.
“No,”Isay,lettingthesilencestretchoutforabeattoolong.ThenIturntowardhimandtakeadeepbreath.“Shedied.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Benhadn’tcomeintotheofficeforthreestraightdays.
Iwasstartingtoworry,wonderifmaybeithadsomethingtodowithme.Maybesomeonehadfoundout—butfoundoutaboutwhat,exactly?Wehadn’tdoneanythingwrong—ormaybehewashavingregrets,avoidingme.Tryingtofigureouthowtoendwhateveritwasthatwehadstarted.Hewasn’tansweringmytexts;hehadn’ttoldmeaboutanyupcomingvacations.Hedidn’thaveanyworktripsonhiscalendar.
AllIknewwasthatonMonday,hewasthere.Andthenhewasn’t.
“Didyouhear?”
Kaseyshuffledpastmydesk,apenciltuckedbehindherear.Ipeeledmyeyesfromhisclosedofficedoor,thedarknessofhiswindows,andmovedthemovertoher,alarmcreepingintomychest.Kaseyalwayshadthatlookabouther:easytoread.Heremotionswerescribbledbetweenthelinesofherfacelikenotesonascrapofloose-leafpaper,andrightnowtheyweretellingmesomethingwaswrong.
“No,”Isaid.“Hearwhat?”
“Allisondied.”
“What?”
“AllisonDrake,”shesaid.“Ben’swife.Shedied.”
“What?”Igasped,myhandshootingtomychestlikeI’dbeenshot.
“Yeah.Shedied.”
“How?”
“Suicide,”shewhispered,hermouthonmyear.Herbreathwaswarmandearthy,thewayitalwayswaswhenshedrankhercoffeeblack.Iwonderedifthiswaswhatshehadbeendoingallmorning—chuggingcaffeine,makingherrounds,spreadingthelatestofficegossiplikeajacked-upjournalist,revelinginthefactthatsheknewfirst.“Oraccidentaloverdose.Eitherway,itwaspills.Like,ashittonofthem.”
Ifeltthewordsclotinmythroat;Iopenedmymouth,triedtospeak,butnothingcameout.Kaseyraisedhereyebrows,tiltedherchindown.
“Iknow,right?”
“Thatcan’tberight,”Ifinallysaid.“Whywouldshe—?”
“Iknow,”shesaid,shakingherhead.“Ihavenoidea.Iguessshehadaproblemwedidn’tknowabout.Thathappenswithhousewivessometimes.Toomuchtimeontheirhands.”
IconjureduptheonlyrealmemoryIhadofAllison:thetwoofus,standingcloseonthatrooftop,herfingertipsonmyforearmasBenstoodtotheside,watchingusboth.Thewayshehadleanedintome,sharedasecretandawink.MademefeellikeIwassuddenlyontheinsideofsomethingspecial.
“Sheseemedhappy.”
IfeltstupidthesecondIsaidit.Iknewthatonemomentwesharedtogethercouldn’tpossiblybeenoughtoknowher—toreallyknowher—butwhatIwasreallythinkingwas:Howcouldshenotbehappy?ShehadBen.
Kaseyshrugged.“Weallhavesecrets.”
Iwatchedherwalkaway,takingafewstepstothenextrowofdesksandleaningdown,whisperingagain.ThenIglancedbackatBen’soffice,thinkingaboutallthetimesIhadimaginedthemtogether:Benandhiswife.Everynightafterwe’dpartedways,Iwouldwalkintomyapartment,theemptinessmakingitfeelevenlonelierthannormal.Iwouldsitatmykitchencounterorslumpoverinmytoo-smallbathtub,lukewarmwaterbarelygrazingmychest,andwonderwhattheyweredoingtogetheratthatexactmoment:havingacocktailontheporch,maybe,orcookingsomethingsophisticatedfordinnerwhileIwouldbereheatingacoagulatedLeanCuisineIhadneglectedfortoolonginthefreezer.Iwouldimaginethemfuckingonexpensivegranitecountertops,waterboilingoverandspillingontothefloor.Itmademewanttoscream.
Butinthatmoment,arealizationsettledinmystomachlikeswallowedvomit,putridandsour:Iknewnothingabouther.Iknewnothingaboutthem.Theinnerworkingsoftheirliveswereacompletemysterytome,andnowAllisonwasdead.Ben’swifewasdead.WhichmeantthatBenwasnowawidower.
Weallhavesecrets
IwonderedwhatKaseymeantbythat,whatshewassuggesting.IwonderedifshemeantthatAllisonhadsecrets—apillproblem,anaddiction,thatsteeredherinthedirectionoftakingherownlife;adepressionthathadspiraledoutofcontrol,guidingherhandasshetippedthebottlebackwhileBenwasatwork—orifshemeantthatsomeoneelsehadsecrets.Secretsthatperhapsshehadunearthed.
Secretsshecouldnolongerlivewith.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
There’sanatmosphericshiftintheairatthementionofAllison,herdeath.Likethewaydogsstarttowhimperwhenastormisnear,sensingtheimpendingdanger.Theelectricalcharge.
Waylonplatesourfood,hiseyescastdownashewalksintothediningroom,slidingaplateinfrontofme.
“Thislooksdelicious,”Isay,pickingupafork.“Thankyou.”
“Ofcourse.”Heeasesintotheseatnexttomine,unfoldsanapkin,anddrapesitoverhislap.Thenheexhales,looksmeintheeye.“So,that’sheavy.”
“Yeah,”Isay,stabbingatamushroom.“Itwasawful.”
“Suicide?”
Ispearsomepasta,twirl,myeyesonmyplate.“Yeah,Iguess.Oranaccidentaloverdose,itwasneverquitedetermined.Theydidn’tfindanoteoranything.”
“Whatdoyouthinkhappened?”
Idropmyfork,theclatterofmetalagainstglassmakingRoscoejumpfrombeneaththetable,joltingmychair.IlookupatWaylon,athislargeeyesstaringstraightintomine.
“Ifyouhadtoguess,”headds.
“Idon’tknow.”Iexhale,tryingtosteadymyhands.They’reshaking,forsomereason.Agentletremor.Maybeit’sthetalkofAllison,theunresolvedguiltI’vealwaysfeltoverherdeath.OrmaybeI’mjusthungry;toomuchcaffeineontooemptyastomach.“Iguess,ifIhadtomakeanassumption,Iwouldsayaccidental.”
Idon’treallyknowifIbelievethat,butforsomereason,itmakesmefeelbetter.
“WhataboutBen?”
“Youknow,heneveractuallytoldmewhathethinks,”Isay,realizingitforthefirsttime.“Wenevertalkedabouthermuch,andofcourse,Ineverwantedtoask.Buthewastornupaboutit,obviously.”
“Huh,”Waylonsays,lookingbackdownathisplate.Iglanceupathim,noticethewayhe’spickingathisfood,likehe’stryingtodissectit.
“Anyway,Ijustwantedtobringitup,”Isay.“Beforeyouhearitfromtheneighbors.OrDetectiveDozier.”
“Yeah,”hesays.“Yeah,thanks.That’sgoodtoknow.”
“Buttherewasn’tanyfoulplaysuspectedoranythinglikethat.Iwantyoutoknowthat,too.Itwasanopen-and-shutcase.”
“It’sjust…”Hestops,seemstoconsiderwhetherornotheshouldkeepgoing,finishhisthought.Finally,hespitsitout.“Doesn’tanypartofyouthinkthatherdeathwasvery…convenient?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask,althoughIknowwhathemeans.Ijustwanttohearhimsayit.
“Just,youknow.Itlooksbad.Hewashavinganaffair—”
“Itwasn’tanaffair.”
“Therewasanotherwoman.Thenhiswifediesundersuspiciouscircumstances…”
“Itwasn’tsuspicious.Itwasanoverdose.”
“…andnowhissondisappearsundersuspiciouscircumstances,andyoutwoarenolongertogether…”
“Okay,”Isay,placingmyforkdownwithmeasuredcontrol.“Look,Iunderstandit’syourjobtoaskquestions,Ido.ButAllisonhadanoverdose.Ithappens.AndBenandIseparatedbecauseourworldwasrippedapart,okay?WewerehappybeforeMasonwastakenfromus.Wewerefine.”
IstareatWaylon,daringhimtokeeppushingit.Icanseehislowerlipquiver—thethreatofretaliation,anotherquestionthatIcan’tanswer—butinstead,heclencheshisjaw,likehehastophysicallyrestrainhimselffromspeaking.
“It’shardforacoupletosurvivesomethinglikethis,”Icontinue,regurgitatingthewordsfromDr.Harris.Likebecausehesaidthem,itmakesitfact.“It’shardforapersontosurvivesomethinglikethis.”
“Okay,I’msorry.You’reright.”
Weeatinsilence,theclankingofsilverwaresomehowamplifyingtheawkwardstillnessthathassettledoverthehouse.
“TellmesomethingaboutMason,”Waylonsaysatlast,changingthesubject.Itseemsintentional,likehewantstopivotawayfromthissoresubjectandtowardsomethingbetter,lighter.“Somethingpersonal.”
Ilookdownatthetable,rememberingjustyesterdayalltheequipmentthatsathereblinkingbetweenus.Ithadremindedmeofthosefirstrecordedinterviewsatthepolicestation,theantiquatedcassetteplayerwithspinningwheelslikeeyes.OfDetectiveDozierontheothersideofit,andthewayhe’dpace,tryingtounnerveme.
“Let’ssee,”Isay,pickingupmyglass,twistingthestembetweenmyfingers.“Helovesdinosaurs.He’sobsessedwiththem,really.Wehavethisonebook—”
“Isabelle,”Wayloninterrupts,leaningforwardinhischair.“Somethingpersonal.”
Ibitemytongue,feelingmyheartpoundinmychest.I’msousedtocalculatingmystatements,tryingsohardtopleasewhoeverisonthereceivingendofthem—sayingonlytherightthings,thegoodthings—andhow,still,itneverseemstomatter.Waylonappearstoseethroughthat,though.HesomehowknowswhenI’mnotbeingentirelytruthful.WhenIhavesomethingmoretosay.
Ilookupathimagain,atthekindnessinhiseyes,andwonderifthistimereallycouldbedifferent.
“Honestly?”Isayatlast.“Hewastough.”Theadmissionfeelslikeasuddenexhaleafterholdingyourbreathforfartoolong.
“Howso?”heasks.
“Hewasacolickybaby,alwayscrying.Imean,nothingcouldsoothehim.Nothing.Iwashomealonealot,withBenatwork,andIrememberthereweretimes,duringthosefirstnights—”
Istopmyself,decidingthatitmaynotbeinmybestinteresttobetoohonest.Notyet,atleast.TodescribetheunusualwayMasoncameintothisworldorthepanicofthoseearlymorninghoursintoomuchdetail.ThedesperationthatstartedtocreepintomychestwhenIfoundusaloneinthedark,hiswrithinglittlebodyinmyarms,limbsliketwigsthatcouldsoeasilysnap.Icanstillrememberthosemuddy,sleep-deprivedmusings;thekindthatdidn’tevenfeelreal.Thekindthatnomotherwouldeveradmittoherself,letaloneutteroutloud.Masonwouldshriekinthenightandtheywouldflareupsosuddenly,soviolently:darklittlefantasiesofallthethingsIcoulddotofinallymakehimstop.AndIwouldletthemin,ifonlyforasecond.Iwouldletmyselfentertainthemforabeattoolong—butthen,inthemornings,Iwouldsimplyignorethemagain,pretendtheywerenevereventheretobeginwith.IwouldfeelmycheeksburnhotwithshameasIliftedhimoutofhiscribandsmotheredhiminkisses,castingthembackintotherecessesofmymindwheretheotherbanishedfeelingslived:naughtyandnocturnal,curledupinthatdankcaveofmysubconscious,skulkingarounduntilthesundippedbelowthehorizonagainanditwassafeforthemtocrawlbackout.
“It’sjusthard,”Icontinue.“Beingamother.It’snotwhatyouexpectittobe.”
Nobodyeverwarnsyouaboutthespitethatcomesinthenightwhenyou’reoperatingontwohoursofsleep.Nobodyevertellsyouabouthowresentfulyoubegintofeeltowardapersonyoucreated.Apersonwhoreliesonyouforeverything.
Apersonwhoneveraskedforanyofthis.
Waylonshiftsinhischair,uncomfortable,beforetakingadeepsipofwineandreturninghisattentiontohisplate.I’msurehewasimaginingsomethingdifferent:oneofthoserosymemoriesmothersrelaywithstarsintheireyes,makingeveryoneelsefeelbotched.Idon’treallyknowwhatdrovemetosayit—theintimacyofthisdinner,maybe,ofsharingamealwithsomeoneinmyownhomeforthefirsttimeinmonths.Ormaybeit’sbecauseWaylonhasbeenthefirstpersoninsolongtoreallylistentome,tobelieveme,andwe’vebeentiptoeingtowardthistypeofrawhonestyeversincethatdayontheplanewhenheplacedhiscardonmyknee.
Whateveritis,itfeelsgood,theadmission,eventhoughIknowit’snotwhatpeoplewanttohear.Itfeelshonest.
Finally,somethinghonest.
Thefactis,I’veneverbeenabletobehonest.NottoBen,myparents,theothermothersatdaycare—especiallytheothermothers.EvenbeforeMasonwastaken,beforeImetBen,Ialwayshadsecrets,swallowingthemdowneverytimetheurgetorepentcamegarglingupmythroatlikebile.IlearnedfairlyquicklythatwhenpeopleaskedhowIwasdoing,howIwasholdingup,theydidn’tactuallywantananswer—notarealone,anyway—soIsimplyignoredthatlittleneedleprickthatstuckinmyjaw,thethreatofimpendingtears,andplasteredonasmile,givingthemtheanswerIknewtheyexpected:thateverythingwasgood,everythingwasfine.
Infact,no.Everythingwasperfect
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
WaylonandIarestillinthediningroomhourslater,thetablepushedtoonesidesowecansitonthefloorandstareatthewall.Mason’scasefileisbetweenus,alongwiththetwobottlesofwine—bothofthemempty.We’vesincemovedontoliquor:awhiskeyontherocksforhim,andforme,avodkasoda,asinglesliceoflimebobbingontop.
“Didyoueverleaveasparekeyoutside?”heasks.It’slate,almostoneinthemorning,andthere’salittleslurinhisspeech,barelythere,likehistongueisnumb.Hiseyelidsareheavy,andalthoughI’msurethealcoholisn’thelping,mostly,Ithinkhe’stired.He’sreadyforsleep.“Onethatsomeoneelsemighthaveknownabout?”
“No,”Isay,shakingmyhead.“Benwasalwaysopposedtothat.EversinceIfoundoursmissingfromundertheWelcomemat.”
Waylonraiseshiseyebrows,butIshakemyhead.
“Thatwasyearsago,”Isay.“Masonwas,like,sixmonthsold.”
Waylonlooksbackdown,nodding,andIcanstillrememberitsgrimyoutlinemakingmystomachsqueeze.Benhadassuredmethatwehadprobablyjustmisplacedit—maybeitfelloutofmypocketononeofmywalkswithRoscoeorslippedthroughthewoodenslatsofourporch—butstill.Itspookedus:thethoughtofsomebodyelsebeingabletoliftupthatflimsypieceoffabricandletthemselvesintoourlivessoeasily,almostasifwehadinvitedtheminourselves.Itmademerealizethatweweretootrusting;that,toooften,wejustassumenobodyisouttohurtus.Thatnobodyiswatchingwhenwewalkaroundourhousesatnight,blindsopen,thelightsfrominsideilluminatingoureverymove.Thatwhenwestepoutsideandlockourdoors,stashthekeybeneathaflowerpotorwedgedbehindarock,they’renotgoingtowalkupbehindusanddigitbackout.
Thattheviolenceisn’talwayslookingforawayin—alwayspokingandproddingatourlives,searchingforasoftspottosinkinitsteeth.
“Whataboutthebabymonitor?”heasksnext,andIshoothimalook.
“Thebatteriesweredead.Remember,Itoldyou—”
“Sorry,yeah,”hesays,rubbinghiseyes.“WhatImeanis,didthemonitorkeepanyearlierrecordings?Like,didtheysave?Likeasecuritysystem?”
“Yeah,theydid,”Isay.“ItwasconnectedtoWiFi,sothevideosyncedtoourcellphonesandlaptop.Youcontrolitallfromanapp.”
“Doyoustillhavethatoldfootage?”
“Ishould,”Isay,speakingslowly.Thepolicehadaskedforfootageofthatnight,thenighthewastaken,butsincethebatteriesweredead,Icouldn’thelpthem.Theyneveraskedforearlierfootage,though,andIneverreallythoughttolook.Itdidn’tseemimportant,lookinginsidethehouse.Ihadspentallmytimelookingoutsideofit.“Why?”
“Justincasethere’ssomethingontheretosee,”hesays.“Inthedaysleadinguptohiskidnapping.Youneverknow.”
Inod,pushmyselfupfromthefloor,andwalkovertothetable,grabbingmylaptop.IbringitbackovertoWaylon,who’stakinganothersipofhiswhiskey,hiseyesinspectingsomethingatthebottomofhisglass.Iopenthelaptop,typeinmypassword,andfindthefolderhousingtheoldrecordings,burieddeepinmyharddrive.Therearehundredsoffilesinthere,organizedbydate,eachonestoringanightofMason’slife.
“IguessI’llstartaboutaweekearlier?”Iask,lookingathim.Heshrugs,nods,soIdouble-clickonthefilelabeled“Thurs_Feb_24_2022”andholdmybreathasavideoloads.
Itstartsinthemorning,sixa.m.,withMasonsleeping.MybreathcatchesinmythroatasIwatchfromthecornerofhisnursery,wherethecameraismounted,hislittlebodylyingstillonthemattress.
“He’scute,”Waylonsays,andIlookovermyshoulderathimwatchingthescreen.Hesmilesatme.“Bigheadofhair.”
“Yeah,”Isay,thatfamiliarstinginmyeyes.
Afteracoupleofminutes,hestartstostir,andafewsecondslaterIseehisdoorcrackopen,andIwatchasIwalkintohisbedroom,leaningintohiscribandpickinghimup.Iplantakissonhischeek,bouncinghimaroundandmakinghimlaugh,beforewewalkbackoutthedoorandleavetheroomemptybehindus.
“Iwashopingwemightbeabletoseehiswindow,”Waylonsays,pointingatthescreen.“Butitdoesn’tlooklikeit.Notfromthisvantagepoint.”
“No,”Isay.“Thecameraismountedbehindhiscrib,facingthedoor.Thewindowisnexttohiscrib,soitwouldn’tshowuphere.”
Iclickonthetimeratthebottomofthevideo,fast-forwardingthroughacouplehoursofemptyroom.Aroundmidday,IwatchasIdropMasonbackoffforanap,thenlaterthatnight,asIcarryhimovertohisbookshelf,chooseastory,andreadittohiminarockingchairinthecorner,lullinghimtosleep
We’rebothquietforawhileuntilIclearmythroat,tryingtopushdownthetearsIcanfeelcrawlingtheirwayup
“Thanksfordoingthat,”Waylonsays,hisvoicesoft.“Itwasworthashot.Buthey,I’mgoingtobed.Andyoushould,too.We’llpickthisupinthemorning.”
Inod,givehimaclose-lippedsmile,andwatchashestandsupandputshisglassinthesink,slinkingoffdownthehallandclosingthedoorbehindhim.Ihearthefaintshufflesofmovementintheguestroom—pullingbackhiscomforter,removinghisclothes—andwaituntilthelightclicksoff,thecrackunderneaththedoorgoingdark.
Ilookagainatmylaptop—atMason,nowbackinhiscrib.Icouldsithereforhours,watchinghimsleep.
Istandupwithmylaptopandmakemywaytothetable,takingaseat.ThenIclickonthetimeranddragitagain,speedingthroughthenight,watchingMasonashetwitchesinfastmotion.Theroomgrowsdarker,agentleglowemittingfromhisnightlightinthecorner,untilsuddenly,itstartstobrightenupagain.Daylightcoming.Then,atsixo’clockthefollowingmorning,therecordingstops.
Ileanbackinmychair,thinkingaboutwhatIjustsaw.It’ssosimple—justaday;justaregular,normalday—butatthesametime,sohardtoprocess.It’smind-numbingsometimes,thinkingabouthowdifferentmylifeisnow.Howlonely,withMason’snurseryjustanemptyroomcollectingdust;askeletonstrippedoflife.
Iglanceattheclockonmywall—onethirtya.m.—andbackatmylaptop,decidingtowatchanother.
Iclickonarandomday,goingbackacoupleofmonths,andwatchagainasmylifeunfoldsbeforemelikeadustyoldcarpet,gettingunspooledafteryearsofneglect.Idothesamethingasbefore—watchthepartswithMasoninthem,fast-forwardthroughtherest—andwhenthatoneisdone,Ichooseanother.IwatchMasonasanewborn,soimpossiblysmall,thendecidetojumpforwardandwatchasheteacheshimselfhowtorockonhiskneesinhiscrib,gettingstronger.ThesearethelittlemomentsthatIhadmissed—themomentstuckedbehindacloseddoor,unfoldingwhileIslept—butnow,Idon’twanttomissanyofthem.Idon’twanttomissasecond.
I’monanothervideonow—fromearlyDecember,threemonthsbeforehewastaken—andwatchasBenrockshimtosleepthistime.He’swhisperingsomethingintohisear,overandover,beforewalkinghimtohiscribandrestinghiminside.Iwatchashewalksaway,turnsoffthelight,andIstarttofast-forwardagain,gettingreadyforthetimertoendandthevideotostop—untilsuddenly,Icatchamovement.
Ipausethevideoandlookdownatthetimer:3:22a.m.Ilookbackatthefrozenimage,squinting,tryingtofigureoutwherethemotionwascomingfrom,andthenIrealize:It’scomingfromthecrackunderneathhisdoor.It’scomingfromthehallway.
Istartthevideoagainandnoticeasubtleshadowmovingacrossthedoor,likesomeoneisoutthere,walking.Bengoingtothebathroom,maybe,orgrabbingaglassofwater.ButthenIwatchasthedoorslowlystartstoopen,andIseemyselfstepinside.
Masonmusthavebeencrying,Ithink,eventhoughhelooksfastasleep.Itapthevolumelouderandhearnothingbuthissoundmachine,amildswishing,likepushingyourearintoaconchshellandhearingyourbloodrush.Ileanclosertothescreen,hypnotized,asIseemyselfwalkintohisnursery,towardhiscrib—andthen,suddenly,Istopmoving.
“WhatamIdoing?”
Isayitoutloudwithoutevenrealizingbecauseit’ssostrange,watchingmyselflikethis.SeeingmestandinginthemiddleofMason’sbedroom,unmoving—andthat’swhenthememoryhitsme,hard.
Myhandshootstomymouth,stiflingagasp.
“WhatwasIdoing?”
MargaretandI,lyinginbed,hercheekpushedintothepillowasshestaredatme,eyeswideandafraid.
“Juststandingthere.Youreyeswereopen.”
Iwatchforanotherminute,waitingformybodytodosomethingon-screen,butstill,Idon’tmove.Myfeetarecementedinplace;myeyes,open,staringstraightahead.
“Itscaresmewhenyoudothat.”
Iwantmyselftomovesobadly;Iwantmyselftodosomething,anything,otherthanjuststandthere,comatose.Thewhitesofmyeyesglowinginthecameralikeananimalcaughtinheadlights.Finally,Ican’ttakeitanymore.Iclickonthetimerandstarttofast-forward,watchingasmyrigidbodyswaysinajerkyrhythmastheclockticksforward.
3:45,4:15,4:45,5:05.
Finally,at5:43a.m.,Iwatchmybodyturnaroundandwalkbackintothehallwayaftertwohoursofstandinginplace,shuttingthedoorbehindme.ThenIstareatMason—asleepinhiscrib,oblivioustoitall—foranotherseventeenminutesuntilthevideocutsoffandthescreengoesblack.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
THEN
It’sagroggymorning.Iwakeupslow,likemybrainistrudgingthroughmud.Icantastethesleeponmybreath,thickandheavy,andfeelaphlegmyfilmonmytongue,likethekindyoupeeloffaboiledegg.Ittakesafewblinksuntilmyeyesarefullyadjusted,theworldcomingtoinablurrykindofhaze,butwhenitdoes,Iinstinctivelyknowthatsomethingiswrong.
ThefirstthingInoticeisthequiet.Therearenocicadasshriekingoutsidemywindow,nobirdssignalingthestartofanewday.It’salmostasiftheworldhasstoppedturningandI’mcaughtupinthestillnessofit,floating.There’sthesmellofthemarsh,too.It’sstrongerthanlastnight,almostoverpowering,likethewatersomehowseepedinthroughmywindowandspilledontothecarpet.
Iimagineitforasecond:thetide,gettinghigher,untilitreachesthehouse.Climbinguptwostories,brownwaterpouringthrougheverycrackandcreviceandwindowanddoor.Trappingusinside,takingusdown.Drowningusall.
Iclearmythroat.“Wesleptin.”
Myvoicehasacroakinesstoit,likeanunusedinstrument,andIrollovertofaceMargaret.Iexpecttoseeherfacepushedintomypillow—thosebig,blueeyesstaringbackintomine—butshe’snotthere.
“Margaret?”
Isitup.That’swhyit’ssoquiet,Irealize.Margaretisn’there.Usually,whenIwakeupbeforeher,Icanhearthesteadinessofherbreath;agentlesnorevibratinginherthroat.Thegrazeofherlimbsrubbingagainstmyold,scratchysheets.
Iglanceovertomyattachedbathroom,butthedooriswideopen.Sheisn’tthere,either.
Iflingmylegsovermybed,pushmyfeetintothecarpet,andfeelawetnessgushthroughmytoes.Iyankmyfeetawayandlookdown,thelittlepuddlesthathadcollectedfromthepressuresinkingbackintothecarpetlikefootprintsondampsand.
“Margaret?”
Igetoutofbedandstartwalkingtowardmybathroom.Thecarpetismoist,andforasecond,Ithinkagainaboutthatstrangevision—thewaterfromthemarshpouringintomybedroom—butIknowthat’snotpossible.Itcouldnevergetthathigh.Iturnonthebathroomlightandsquintatthebrightness,noticingmorewateronthefloor—onegiantpuddlecreepingtowardthewalls—andafewdanktowelsheapedinthecorner.Already,they’restartingtosour.
Wasthisfromourbath?Iwonder,takingastepcloser.MaybewemadeabiggermessthanIthought.IimagineMargaretclamberingout,waterspillingfromthesideofthetubbeforeMomgrabbedatowelanddriedheroff,tossingitinthecorner.Pullingonourpajamasandturningoffthelight,leavingitfortomorrow.
ButthenIseemyselfinthemirror’sreflection,andIknowthat’swrong,too.
Ilookdown,grabbingthefabricofmynightgowninmyhands.I’mwearingadifferentnightgownfromwhatIhadonlastnight.Iknowit’sdifferent.Iremember,becauseIrememberthelittledaisiesonMargaret’s,herbodylikeaflowerfieldasshelayonmymattress.Minehaddaisiestoo,onlybigger,likeMommeantforourclothingtosignifyourage.
Butnow,theoneIhaveonisjustaclean,crispwhite.
“Margaret?”
Somethingiswrong.Iknowsomethingiswrong.Icansenseit,athrobbinginmybones,likewakingupafteragrowthspurt.Likemybodyisthreateningtoripstraightthroughtheskin.
Andthenthere’sthatfeelingagain,thatnigglinginmybrain,daringmetoremember.
Iliftmyarmsandplacethemonmyneck,feelingmyjugularpulse.I’mtryingtorelax,slowmybreathing,andthat’swhenIfeelit:somethingbehindmyear,beneathmyjaw,thatlittlepatchofdelicateskin.Ilowermyhandandlookdownatmyfingers,atthefaintsmearofbrown,andliftthemtomynose,inhalingslowly.
I’drecognizethatsmellanywhere,likedeathanddecay.
It’spluffmud.
Ithrowmyhairovermyshoulderandleanintothemirror,tryingtocatchaglimpseatmyneck.Andthere,justbeneathmyear,arethreelittlestreaks.Likefingers.
Irunbackintothebedroom,feelingmyheartbeatclimbinmythroat.ThenIdashintothehallwayandrundownthestairs,takingthemtwoatatime.Mythoughtsareswirlingaroundmenow,thickandheavylikeacloudofgnats.Thespringtideandthewateronthefloorandthefootprintsonthecarpet.Me,eyesopen,walkingintothedarkness.Mymother’spainting,mytoesinthemarsh.
Margaret,alwaysfollowingme,evenwhenshe’safraid.
Ihitthelandingandturnintothekitchen,expectingtoseeherthere:Margaret,sittingatthetable,dollinherlap.I’mwaitingforhertoregistermyappearance.Forherexpressiontosour,hereyestoroll,shakingherhead:“Youweredoingitagain.”
Instead,Iseemyparents.
They’resittingatthekitchentable,twomugsofcoffeebetweenthem,theireyescastdowntothefloor.
“Dad?”
Theydon’tlookup;theyhaven’tevennoticedme.Forasingle,unsettlingsecond,IfeellikeI’mdead.LikeI’mjustanotherghosthauntingthisplace,mybodystuckinthewallslikerot.
“Mom?”
Iseemymother’sshouldersstiffen,likemyvoicewasacold,hardslapagainstherskin.Likeshehadtophysicallybraceherselffromit,protectherself,fromme.Herfingerstightenaroundthecoffeemug,hardenoughformetoseethewhitesofherknucklesappearbeneaththeskin.Sheliftsherheadupslowly.
“Where’sMargaret?”Iask,butsuddenly,IhaveafeelingthatIdon’twanttoknowtheanswer.Mymother’sexpressionmakesthatperfectlyclear:thehaggardnessofhereyes,glassyandred,likethatnightinmyfather’soffice.Likeshe’sbeencryingagain.Likeshe’safraid.
“Yoursisterhadanaccident.”
Ilookatmydad.Hisspeechissteadyandsmooth,thewayitalwaysis.
“Whatkindofaccident?Issheokay?”
Mymothershovesherchairbackviolently,andIjumpatthescreechoflegsagainsttile.Thenshestandsupandpushespastme,eyesstraightahead,andwalksupthestairsbeforeslammingherdoorshut.
“What’swrongwithMom?”
Mydadsighs,dropshisheadagain.Thenhepusheshispalmsintohiseyes,hard,andIwatchasheliftshisneckandforceshimselftolookatme.
“Isabelle,thepoliceareontheirway.Ithinkitwouldbebestifyouwenttoyourroom.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
NOW
“Izzyhasalwayshad…problems.Withsleep.”
Dr.Harris,leaningforwardinhischair,studyingmelikealabrat.Ben,tomyside,hishandonmyknee.
“Evenbeforetheinsomnia.Kindoftheoppositeproblem,actually.”
Thememoriesfillmeupslowly,likeI’mdrowninginthem:blinkingmyeyes—three,fourtimes—myfather’sfacematerializingupcloseinthedark.Hishandsonmyshoulders,eyebrowsbunched.
Standinginthegrass,mypalmclaspedinhis,theorangeglowofflamesastheytraveledupourhouseasweslept.Thewarmthonmycheekslikeaninfection,eyesablaze.
Wakingupinthekitchen,allthelightsoff.Apuddleofmilkspiltonthefloor.
Mymother,thathazyconfusion.Thekinkinherneckasshestaredatme,tryingtodetermineifI’mawake.IfI’mreal.
Butmostofall:Margaret.
“Howlongareyougoingtokeepdoingthis?”
Irememberthefootprintsinmybedroom;thewayIhadtriedtohidethem,rubbingmyfeetagainstthedirt,smearingthemintothecarpet.Beggingthemtodisappear.Thatstonestatue,eyeswide,retchingupsomethingdark.Myparentshadtakenmetoadoctor,ofcourse.Butaccordingtohim,itwasnothingtobeconcernedwith.Hesaiditwascommon,harmless.Mostkidsgrowoutofitbythetimethey’reteens.
“Isabelle?”
Ihearthevoice,butmymindisstillelsewhere.Somewherefaraway.It’sonMargaret,thewayherlittlebodyfeltasitwaspushedupagainstmine.Amessofslipperylimbsandthesmellofsweatinthesheets.
“NowIlaymedowntosleep,IpraytheLordmysoultokeep.”
Wakingupthenextmorning,thatmudsmearedonmynecklikelittlefingersreachingup,pushingmeback.
“IfIshoulddiebeforeIwake,IpraytheLordmysoultotake.”
“Hey,Isabelle.”
Iblinkafewtimes,turnmyhead.Waylonisstandingaboveme,lookingconcerned.Iforgothewashere.
“Didyoustayupallnight?”
Iblinkagain,lookaround.I’minmydiningroom,sittingatthetable,mylaptopdeadinfrontofmeandcasefilepapersstrewnacrossthefloor.Iglanceatthewall,atallthoseeyesstaringmedown,andsuddenly,itnolongerfeelslikeI’mstudyingthem;itfeelslikethey’restudyingme.LikethataudienceatTrueCrimeCon,they’relookingatmeexpectantly,justwaitingformetoslip.Torevealsomethingdarkanddangerous,likeI’mtheonewiththesecret.LikeI’mtheonewithsomethingtohide.
Which,Isuppose,Iam.
Iglanceoutthewindow—it’slightoutside—thenbacktoWaylon.Helookslikehe’sfreshlyshowered,readyforanewday,andIclearmythroat.
“No,”Isay,tryingtoreorientmyself.IhavenoideahowlongI’vebeensittinghere.“No,I…fellasleeponthecouch.Inmyclothes.”
“Okay,”hesays,stilleyingme.“Doyouneedanything?”
“No,”Isayagain.“I’mjustgoingto…I’mgoingtoshower.Getdressed.Sorry.”
“CanImakeyousomethingtoeat?”
“Yeah,”Isay,standingup,suddenlyembarrassed.“Yeah,thatwouldbegreat.Thankyou.”
“Sorry,Ididn’tmeanto…”Hestops,andIcantellhefeelsuncomfortable.Likehewasjustcaughtsnoopingthroughmybathroomcabinet,readingmyprescriptions.Witnessingsomethingthatwasmeanttobeprivate.“Youwerejustsittingthere,staring.Iwantedtomakesureyouwereokay.”
“Yeah,I’mfine,”Isay,pushingmyhairoutofmyface,tryingtosmile.“Didn’tmeantoscareyou.Ijustzonedoutforasecond.”
Iexcusemyselfandmakemywayintothebathroom,lockingthedoorbehindme.ThenIwalkovertothesinkandturnonthefaucet,lettingthewaterrun,andstareatmyreflectioninthemirror.Ilookawful;worsethanusual.Mymakeupfromlastnightiscakedintomycreases,myeyestheirusualangryred,butthere’ssomethingelseinmyfacethatlooksdifferent,haunted.Apalenesstomyskinthatseemsunnatural,likesomeonesiphonedmybloodinthenight.
Iliftmyhandstomycheeks,touchingthemgently,thensnakemyfingersbacktomyneck,behindmyear,feelingthatsmoothpatchofskinbeneathmyjaw.It’sstartingtocometogethernow,likethesloworientationafterwakingupsomewherenew—althoughsuddenly,I’mnotsureIwantittoanymore.
Ithinkofallthosefeelingsthathavebeenflaringupoverthelasttwelvemonths;feelingsofinexplicableguilt,ofknowingsomethingthatIjustcan’tretain.AllthoselittlemomentswithMason—thosedark,shamefulmomentsthatIrefusedtoacknowledgeinthemorning—andthewayIsawmyselfonthatlaptopscreen,standingabovehiscribinthedark.
Thesimilaritiesbetweenthenandnowthatsuddenlyseemsoobvious.
Ithinkofhisstuffeddinosaurfoundonthebanksofthemarsh;thefamiliarsmellofpluffmudinthemorningandtheicysilencefrommyparentsthatneverseemstomelt.ThewarywayDetectiveDozierlooksatmeeverytimewe’retogether,andhowBenfellawayfrommesofast,almostlikeIdidsomething.Somethingunforgivable.
AlmostlikeheknowssomethingthatIdon’t.
“Youneedtogetittogether,”Iwhisper,closingmyeyes.
ThenItakeafewdeepbreathsandsplashthecoldwaterovermyface,tryingtoshockmyselfbacktolife.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Wedecidetogodowntownafterbreakfastandwalkoffourbuddinghangover.Waylonhasn’tmentionedthismorning:thewayhefoundmesittingthere,staring.WhenIemergedfromthebathroom,hairwetandmakeupslatheredbeneathmyeyes,hewaswhistlinginthekitchen,scramblingeggs.
“Thatmusthavebeentoughforyou,”hesaysnowasweweaveourwaythroughthecity,cardboardcupsofcoffeeinhand.“Seeingthatvideo.”
“Yeah,”Isay.He’stalkingabouttheonewewatchedtogether,theonewherenothingreallyhappened,butallIcanthinkaboutisthewayIlookedonthescreenintheoneIwatchedafterheleftforbed:mybody,uprightandrigid;myeyesglowingliketwohotcoals.I’mgladhewasn’tthereforthat.I’mnotsurehowIwouldhaveexplainedit.“Itwasalittleunusual,watchingitallback.Kindofnice,though.Gettingtoremember.”
“Ibet,”hesays,lookingdownathisshoes.
IwishIhadvideoslikethatofMargaret:bird’s-eyeaccountsofhergoingaboutherdays.Justsomethingtohelpmerecollectthelittlethingsthatare,bynow,longforgotten:theexactshadeofherhair,somewherebetweenblondandbrownwithhintsofhoneywhenthesunhititjustright;thesmellofherskin,andthewayevenhersweathadasubtlesweetnesstoit.Thatinfectiousgigglethatalwayseruptedfromsomewheredeepinherchest.Masonisfadingfrommenow,too,andIknowthere’snothingIcandoaboutit.Ijusthavetoletithappen,letmymemorybetrayme,turningthembothintoshadesoftheirformerselves.It’sgettingharderandhardertorememberitall:hisscent,hislaugh.Hisdetails.Everyday,mymemoryofhimgrowsfainter,likeastaindisappearingslowlyunderthepressureofrunningwater,mythumbmassagingthefabric.
Soon,he’llbegonecompletely.Likeheneverevenexistedatall.
“Hey,”Waylonsayssuddenly,tappingmyarm.“Isn’tthatBen?”
IlookupinthedirectionofWaylon’sgazeandseethathe’sright:Benisafewfeetinfrontofus,holdingthedooropenforanelderlycoupleastheyshuffleoutofabreakfastdiner.SometimesIforgetthathelivesdowntownnow;heboughtafancynewcondonearTheGrit’sofficerightafterweseparated.
Itrynottothinkaboutit,really.Idon’twanttoknowwhathedoesinthere;whoheentertains.
“Yeah,”Isay,myeyesonthesideofhisface.He’sturningleft,inthedirectionwe’regoing,soIthinkwe’resafe.Heshouldn’tseeus.
“Who’sthat?”
RightasWaylonsaysit,IseeawomanwalkoutoftherestaurantandgrabaholdofBen’sarm,herfingersdiggingintohisbicep.She’sgrinning,obviouslyproudofherplaceathisside.ThewayIusedtobe.
“Idon’tknow,”Ilie,butIknowwhosheis.It’sBen’snewgirlfriend,theonehetoldmeabout.Ithastobe.Shelooksvaguelyfamiliar,thoughIcan’tputmyfingeronwhy,butmyhunchisconfirmedasIwatchBenleanoverandgrazeherlips.
Ifeelasqueezeinmychest—anger,jealousy—andclenchmyjawashishandsnakesdownherspine,restingonthesmallofherback.
“He’sgotatype,huh?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Iask,turningtolookatWaylon.HestaresbackatmelikeI’mcrazy.
“Whatdoyoumean?”heasks.“Don’ttellmeyoudon’tseeit.”
Iglancebackintheirdirection.They’rewalkingawayfromusnow,hand-in-hand,butIcanstillseeglimpsesofherprofile—theslightlyupturnednose;thewidesmileandyouthfulglow—andIsuddenlyrealizethatWaylonisright
“ShelookslikeAllison,”Isay,therealizationhittingmehard.That’swhyshelookssofamiliar.Iknewtherewassomething.“Allison,butyounger.”
Theprimaryfeaturesarethere,theonesthatwouldcatchyoureyeatadistance.She’stall,slim.Bronzedskinanddarkbrownhair—butthenmystomachdropswithaviciousjolt,likeanelevatorwithasnappedcable,barrelingdown.
IsuddenlyrealizethatWaylonisn’ttalkingaboutAllison,becausehedoesn’tknowAllison.He’sneverseenAllison.
Idon’tknowhowI’venevernoticeditbefore.
“Allison?”heasks,asifreadingmymind.“Isabelle,shelookslikeyou.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY
Ididn’twanttogotoAllison’smemorial.Itfeltwrong,likedancingonhergrave.LikeIwasgloating,disrespectingthedead,revelinginthevictoryofsomegameshedidn’tevenknowshewasplaying.
EversinceIhadlearnedofherexistence—thatdayattheoffice,thosepicturesoftheirperfectlifedisplayedproudlyonBen’sdeskliketrophies—Ihadlookedatherwithastrangemixtureofjealousyandresentment;ofwonderandawe.Ihadwantedtobeher,andinordertobeher,Ihadwantedhergone.Butnowthatshewasgone,Iwasn’tsurehowIwassupposedtofeelaboutit.
Theentiremagazinewasgoing,though,payingtheirrespects,andIcouldn’tthinkofawaytogetoutofitthatwouldn’teitherseemcold-heartedorcrude.
“It’lljustbeanhour,”Kaseyhadsaidaswewalkedupthesidewalk,yankingdownthehemofherdress.Itwastootightfortheoccasion,thekindofthingIwouldhaveworntoabar,butIcouldn’tblameher.Nobodyeverseemstohavetherightoutfittocommemoratedeath.“It’snotopencasket,soit’snotlikeyouhavetolookatheroranything.ThankGod.”
Shewasmistakingmynervesforsomekindofinherentfearoffunerals,butitwasn’tthat.Itwasneverthat.ItwasthisideathatIcouldn’tseemtoshake:thatnowthatAllisonwasdead,sheknew.AllisonknewaboutBenandme.Oursecret.Assoonaswewalkedinside,Igotthatfeelingagain.Theonemymotherusedtowarnmeabout:eyesonmyback,Allison’seyes,trailingmearoundthehouseasifshewereintheceilingitself,watching.
Westoodinthefoyer,lookingaround,beforespottingthebartableandmakingabeeline,grabbingtwoflutesofchampagne.Itfeltlikeanoddthingtoserveatamemorial,toocelebratoryandlight,especiallyconsideringthecircumstances.ButIneededsomethingtotaketheedgeoff.Somethingtohelpmebreathe.
“Ben’sinthere,”Kaseysaid,gesturingtothelivingroom.“Acceptingcondolences.”
“Shouldwegoin?”
“Iguess,”shesaid,takingasipofchampagne,wincing.Itlookedcheap,anunnaturallyfluorescentyellow.“Herfamily’sinthere,too.Iguessweshouldsaysomething.”
“Allison’sfamily?”
Ihadexpectedit,obviously—ofcourseherfamilywouldbeathermemorial;thiswastheirhouse,afterall—butIwasn’tpreparedforit.Fortherealityoffacingthem:hermotherandherfather,hersiblings,hergrandparents.Oflookingthemintheeye,tryingtofakealipquiver,maybeevensqueezeoutatear.OfrecitingthewordsIknewIwassupposedtosay—I’msosorryforyourloss—butknowing,deepdown,thattheirlosswasmygain.
“Yes,Allison’sfamily.Whoelse?”
Iexhaled,tookalongsipfrommyownflute,andlickedmylips.“IthinkI’mjustgoingtogooutsideforasecond.Getsomeair.”
Irememberpushingmywaythroughthecrowdeddiningroom,throwingshysmilesatmycoworkers.Itwasstrange,seeingthemthere,dressedinblack.Theirdemureexpressionsandill-fittingclothes;thewaytheystoodhuddledtogether,shoulderstense,inpacksofthree.ItwasalmostlikeIhadn’tevenrealizedtheyexistedoutsideofthewallsoftheoffice,eventhoughwehadsocializedtogethersomanytimesbefore.ItremindedmeofonetimeinBeaufortwhenIhadrunintotheliquorstoreandbumpedintomychildhoodpastor;hewasclutchingahandleofvodkaatnineinthemorning,skinsagging,anddidn’tevenbothertohideit.Itmademerealizethatweliketoorganizethepeopleinourlivesintotidylittlecompartments,keepingthemtheretomakeourselvesfeelsafe,soseeingmycoworkersthere,likethat—rippedfromouremotionlesscubiclesandconferencerooms,wipingsnotontheirshirtsleevesandtheireyesredandraw—feltunnaturalandwrong,drivinghometherealnessofitall.
Iopenedthebackdoorandsteppedontotheporch,thecoolbreezefeelinggoodonmyface.Itwaswarminthere,stuffy.Toosmallahousefortoomanypeople.ThenIwalkedovertotheporchstepsandsatdown,placingthechampagneontheground,andputmyheadinmyhands.
“Isabelle?”
Iswungaround,handtomychest,realizingIwasn’talone.Benwasstandingjusttothesideofthehouse,hiddenbehindsomebushes,althoughIrecognizedhisvoiceassoonasIheardit.
“Ben,”Isaid,standingup.“Whatareyoudoing?”
Heliftedhisarm,acigarettelitbetweenhisfingers,andshrugged.
“Ididn’tknowyousmoked.”
“Idon’t.”
Itookafewstepsforward,glancingthroughthewindowsatthebackofthehouse.Nobodywaslookingoutside;theywerealltoobusymingling,gatheringnearanappetizertablearrangedwithplastictraysofsweatycheeseandbabycarrotsthetextureofashyelbows.Theywereeyingthefamilypicturesthatclutteredupthewalls—Allisononasoccerfield,inagraduationcap,aweddinggown—shakingtheirheadsandmutteringthesamerecycledlines.
“Ben,”Isaidagain,steppingofftheporchandontothegrass,closertohim.Wewerehiddenthen,behindthehouseandbeneaththetrees.Nobodyknewwewereoutthere;nobodycouldsee.“I’msosorry.Idon’tevenknowwhattosay.”
“Thankyou,”hesaid,sighing.Heleanedhisheadback,hiseyesonthesky.“Ijusthadtogetoutofthere.Awayfrom…everybody.”
“Igetthat.”
“YouhavenoideahowmanypeopleI’vehadtotalktoovertheselastfewdays,”hesaid,lookingbackatme.Hiseyeslookedsotired,likehehadn’tsleptinaweek.
“Icanimagine,”Isaid,takinganotherstepcloser.AndIcouldimagine.Ihadbeenthroughitbefore;or,atleast,somethingsimilar.
“Andtheentiretime,”hesaid,takinganotherdragofhiscigarette,thetendonsinhisneckbulging,“IwasjustthinkingabouthowbadlyIwantedtotalktoyou.”
Istoppedmid-stride,unsureifI’dheardhimcorrectly.
“IknowIprobablyshouldn’tsaythat,especiallyhere…butfuck,Isabelle.Idon’tcareanymore.Idon’t.Life’stooshort.”
Therewasacrashfromsomewhereinside,loud,likesomeonedroppingaglass.Iheardasoberuptandpeekedaroundthecornerofthehouse,seeingaflutterofbodiesthroughthewindowrunningtosomething—orrather,someone—ontheground.ItwasAllison’smom,Irealized,crumpledintoaheaponthefloor.Shewaskneelinginapileofshards—abrokenwineglass—withbloodyknees,crying.
Imotionedtothebackdoor,mouthhalf-open,likeheshouldgetbackinside,butBendidn’tflinch.Hedidn’tmove.Hejustkeptlookingatme,kepttalking.
“TheselastcoupleyearswithAllisonhavebeentough,”hesaid.“Shehadaproblem,Isabelle.AproblemIdidn’tknowhowtohandle.Itriedtohelpher,but—”
Hestopped,pinchedthebridgeofhisnose.Thecherry-redtipofhiscigarettewasdangerouslyclosetohisskin,andIwassurethathecouldfeelit.Theburnofit,rightbetweenhiseyes.
“IcamehomefromtheofficeMondaynightandfoundheronthebathroomfloor.Shewaspale.Hereyeswereopen.That’snotthefirsttimeshehad,youknow…butthistime,thewayshelooked,Ijustknewthatshewas—”
Ididn’twaitforhimtofinishhissentence.Instead,Iclosedtherestofthedistancebetweenus,wrappingmyarmsaroundhim.
“It’sokay,”Isaid.“It’snotyourfault.”
Icouldimaginethat,too.Howhewasfeeling.Beingtheonetoblame.
“Iwantedtotellyousomanytimes.”Icouldfeelthewarmthofhisbreathonmyneck,thestalesmokiness,andIrealizedthatthiswastheclosestwehaddaredtogetsincethatnightattheoysterroast.Thefirsttimesincethenthatwehadeverreallytouched.“Allthosetimesweweretalking,andIwasavoidinggoinghome,avoidinghavingtodealwithit,Iwantedtojusttellyouallofit.Getitoffmychest.Weweren’thappy,Isabelle.Weweren’tgoodtogetheranymore.”
“It’sokay,”Isaidagain,becauseIdidn’tknowwhatelsetosay.
“Itried,”hesaid,pullingbackfromme.Thewayhewaslookingatme,sodesperate,Icouldtellthathewantedmetobelievehim.Heneededmetobelievehim.“Itriedsohardtomakeitwork.Imean,youknow,allthosetimesthatweweretogether,Iwantedto…but,obviously,Ididn’t—”
“Iknowyoutried,Ben.Youdon’thavetoconvinceme.”
Ipulledmyhandsfromhisbackandplacedthemonhischeeks,holdinghimtight.Ilookedintohiseyes;ourfaces,inchesapart,andbeforeIknewwhatwashappening,thespacebetweenusclosed.Ben’slipswereonmine,movingfrantically,hishandspullingatmyhair.Ifelthiscigarettedroptotheground,skimmingmyarmonthewaydown,andourkisswaslongandhardanddesperate,theculminationofsixmonthsofwanting,wondering,rememberingwhatithadbeenlikethatfirsttimeonthewater.
IhadforgottenwhereIwasinthatmoment,whatIwasdoing.Allison’smotheronthegroundinside,toodistraughttocareabouttheglasscuttingintoherflesh.Allofmycoworkers—myfuture,mycareer—onesmallstepawayfromfindingusout,fromruiningitall.ButIdidn’tcareaboutanyofit.AllthatmatteredwasthatIwaswithhim,finally
Hewasmine,finally.
“Ben?”
Iheardthebackdooropen,thecreakofthehinges.Apairoffootstepssteppingoutontotheporch,feetfromwherewewerestanding.
“Ben,areyououtthere?”
Inaninstant,Benseparatedhimselffrommyarms,peelinghishandsfrommyhairandwipinghislips,removinganytracesofmefromhisskin.Onesecond,wewereintertwined,knottedtogether,whole—andthenext,hewasgone.
“Yeah,outhere,”hesaid,jumpingupontotheporchwithoutlookingback.“Justgettingsomeair.”
Iheardtheslapofahandagainsthisback.Thatsamevoice,swathedinworry
“Youokay?”
“Yeah,”hesaid,clearinghisthroat.“Yeah,allgood.”
IheardBenwalkbackinside,hisshoesonthehardwood,butknew,somehow,thatthepersonwhodisrupteduswasstillthere.Icouldfeelhim,lingering,justontheothersidethewall.Ipushedmyselffartherbackintothebushes,feelingthebranchesscratchatmyskin,gettingtangledinmyhair,andheldmybreath,waitingtobefound.Hetookafewstepsforward,andIwatchedthebackofhisheademergeashewalkedtowardthesteps,handspunchedintohispockets,beforelookingdownattheground—atmychampagneglass,sweatingintheheat,littlebubblesexplodingtothesurface.Thenheleaneddown,pickeditup,andinspectedthesmudgeoflipstickontherim.
Iturnedaroundandran.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
NOW
WaylonandIspenttherestoftheweekendrecording.It’sstartingtocomemorenaturallynow:thoseconversationsthatoncefeltscriptedandforcedflowingeffortlessly,likewe’retwooldfriends,hunchedovercoffee,makingupforlosttime.
It’sMondaymorningnow,andIwatchasheshufflesaroundthekitchenwithamuginonehandandapieceoftoastintheother.ItremindsmeofBenandme,justbarelyoverayearago.Theeasychaosofaweekdaymorning.Thenaturalrhythmoftwolivesintertwined,growingtogetherlikevines:me,plantingakissonhischeekashebrushedhisteeth;Ben’sfingersgrazingmybackasIperchedontheedgeofthebed,lotioningmylegs.Helpinghimshavethosehard-to-reachnooksonhisneck,myrazorpushingintohissoftspots.
“I’mgoingtoswingbythestationfirst,”Waylonsays,wipingasmearofpeanutbutterfromhislip.“SeeifIcancatchDozierfirstthing.”
“Sure,”Isay,blinkingawaythedaydream.“Soundsgood.”
Itoldhimaboutmyneighborthisweekend,too.Abouttheconfrontationonhisporchandmysightingofhimatthevigil;theoldmanintherockingchairwithadirectviewintomyyard.Istilldon’thaveanyevidence,anyproof,butIdesperatelyneedsomeotherangletofocusonafterseeingmyselfonthatlaptopscreen.
Ineedtobelievethere’sanotherexplanation,anotheranswer,outsideoftheonethat’sstartingtoswirlinmymindlikeanapparitiontakingshapeinthedark
“Callyouafter?”heasks.“Maybewecanmeetforlunch?”
Ismileandnod,wavinghimoutofthehouseandexhalingslowlyassoonasthedoorshutsbehindhim.
Iwalkovertothetablenowandopenupmylaptop,launchinganotherbabymonitorvideoandforcingmyselftowatch.Iappreciatehishelp—really,Ido—buttherearestillsomethingsI’dratherdowithouthim.Likethesevideos.Ineedtowatchmoreofthem,andI’dratherdoitwithoutWaylonwatching,too.
MychesttightensnowasIwatchmyselfplaceMasoninhiscrib.Istarttofast-forwardandtheclockticksdutifullyahead:nineo’clock,teno’clock,midnight,twoa.m.Istareatthelittlecrackofmoonlightbeneaththecloseddoor,waitingforanothermovement.Anothershadow.Finally,Iletmyselfexhaleassoonasthesunstartstocomeup,illuminatinghisbedroom,andtheclockstrikessix.
Thevideostops.I’vemadeittomorning.Nothinghappened.
Ileanbackintomychair,thinking.Ijustcan’tshakethatimagefrommymind:me,standinginMason’snursery,staringaheadatnothing.IwasundertheimpressionthatmysleepwalkinghadstoppedonceIleftforcollege.IrememberbeingterrifiedwhenImovedintothedorms,imaginingmyselfwakingupnakedinthehallwayorhoveringoversomerandomboyinbed.Runningabathinthecommunalshowers—silentlyslippingbeneaththewater,bubblesrisingtothesurfaceuntilsuddenly,theystopped—or,Godforbid,forgettingthatIwassleepingninefloorsabovegroundandgettingtheurgetoopenupawindowandclimboutside.Butnoneofthateverhappened.ItsloweddownconsiderablyonceIhitmyteens,likethedoctorhadsaiditwould,andbythetimeIwasoutonmyown,itseemedtogoawaycompletely.
Onlyapparently,itdidn’t.
Andthenthere’stheotherthingthat’sbeenbotheringme;theotherlittledetailthatseemslikenothing—butatthesametime,seemslikesomething,too.WhenBenandImet,IlookedlikeAllison—halfadecadeyounger,sure,buttheresemblancewasthere.Ididn’tseeitatthetime.Iwassoentrancedbyher,byeverythingabouther,thatIcouldn’tpossiblyrecognizemyselfinherinanyconceivableway.Herageintimidatedme;herbodyintimidatedme.Shewasawoman,andI,agirl.Freshonthejob,fightinganaivecrushonmyboss,inferiortoherineverywaythatmattered—butnow,aftereightyearsoftime,IlookinthemirrorandIcanseeit:brownhair,oliveskin.Thealmondshapeofoureyesandthelankhangofourarmsbyoursides,longandskinny,likewedon’tquiteknowwheretoputthem.
Andnow,whoeverthisnewgirlislookslikeme
Benclearlyhasatype,andIcan’tdecideifthatmakesmefeelbetterorworse.Maybethisnewgirlisnothingmorethanarebound,aquickflingtohelphimgetoverafailedmarriageandalostson…butthendoesthatmeanthatIwasjustarebound,too?AreboundfromAllison?Iguessitisn’tunusualtohaveatype—lotsofguyshaveatype—butforsomereason,itremindsmeofthosepeoplewhobuytheexactsamedogwhentheirotheronedies.Insteadoftryingtogrieveandmoveon,trysomethingnew,theyinsteaddecidetojustreplaceitentirelyandrecreatetheirformerlife.Pretendthatnothingevenhappened.
Iknowthat’snotfair,butatthesametime,Ican’thelpbutwondernowwhathewasthinkingwhenwemeteachotherthatnightattheoysterroast:hewasunhappy,Allisonwasunhappy,theirhomelifeawreck.Hehadbeenoutonhisownandfoundhimselfquiteliterallycollidingwiththeyounger,bouncier,perkierversionofher.Howitmusthavefeltforhimthatnight,lookingatmeandimaginingthathewasoutwithhiswife,hishappywife,awifewhowasinterestedinhimagain,flirtingwithhimagain,hangingonhiseveryword.Awifewhodidn’thavetodrownherdissatisfactionwiththeirlifeinpills;awifewhomethimforcoffeeandcocktailsandthrewsecretwinksinhisdirection.
Sothat’swhathehadseeninme;Ihadalwayswondered.Itwasn’tmethathewasattractedto.Itwasn’tthatatall.Ihadjustremindedhimofher—onlyIwasstillshinyandnew,amodelupgrade,notyetbrokenbythetormentsoftime.
Oratleast,that’swhathethought.
IshaketheideafrommymindandclickoutofthevideoIwaswatching,selectinganotherone.Thenanother.Iworkmywaythroughanentireweek,thendecidetowatchafewabitclosertothetimeofMason’sdisappearance:twomonthsbefore.Sofar,Ihaven’tseenmyselfagain,andIstarttowonderitwasjustaonetimething.I’mhalfwaythroughanothervideo—it’sjustafteroneinthemorninginthisone,andMasonislyingonhisback,breathingdeeply—whenIhearRoscoeperkupontheothersideofthelivingroom.Hestartstobark,andIlookuptoseetheshadowofamanapproachingthefrontdoor.
“Coming,”Iyell,hittingPausebeforestandingupfromthetable.
I’mexpectingittobeWaylon,notquitecomfortableenoughinmyhometolethimselfin—afterall,he’sonlybeengoneforanhour,justenoughtimetodrivetothestation,getshutdown,anddrivebackempty-handed—butwhenIopenthedoor,that’snotwhoIsee.
“Goodmorning,”DetectiveDoziersays,handsonhiships.“MindifIcomein?”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-TWO
Forasecond,I’mtoostunnedtospeak.Dozierisnotsupposedtobehere.He’ssupposedtobeatthestation,withWaylon,talkingaboutmyneighbor.
“Gotyourvoicemails,”hesayswhenIdon’trespond.“Andyouremails.FiguredI’dswingbyonmywaytothestationasopposedtocallingyouback.”
“Oh,thankyou,”Isay,finallyfindingmyvoice.“Yes,pleasecomein.”
Iopenthedoorwider,andDozierstepsinside,offeringRoscoehishandtosniff.
“So,what’sthisaboutyourneighbor?”heasks,gettingrighttoit.“Seventeen-forty-twoCattyLane?”
“Yeah,”Isay,takingaseatonthecouch.Igestureforhimtosit,buthekeepsstanding.“He’snotreallymyneighbor,exactly—helivesonthestreetparalleltomine—butInoticedtheotherdaythathehasadirectviewintomybackyard.HecanpracticallyseeMason’swindowfromhisporch.”
IlookdownandrealizethatI’mclenchingmyfiststightly.Iuncurlmyfingers,flexthemafewtimes.
“WhenItriedtoaskhimaboutit,hegotverydefensive,”Icontinue.“Basicallychasedmeoffhisproperty,likehedidn’tlikethefactthatIwassnoopingaround.Hewouldn’teventellmehisname.”
Doziershiftsonhisfeet,movingtheweightfromonefoottotheother.Iwatchashechewsonhisownliplikeatoothpick,asifturningsomethingoverinhismind.
“Italkedtohimoncebefore,lastyear,andhedidn’traiseanyredflags,”Icontinue,pushingon.“Butthere’sjustsomethingaboutthewayhespoketome—”
“I’mgoingtostopyourighthere,”Dozierinterrupts,holdinguphishand.“Ithoughtwemadeitclearthatyou’renottobeinterrogatinganyoneonyourownanymore.”
“Iwasn’tinterrogatinghim,”Isay.“Ijustwantedtoask—”
“—ifhekidnappedyoursonwithoutanyprobablecauseorproof?”
“No,”Isay,gettingagitated.“ButIdon’tunderstandwhyhewouldn’tatleastbeopentotalkingtome,unlesshehassomethingtohide…”
“Maybebecausethelasttimeyoutriedto‘talk’tosomeone,youbrokehisnose.”
Istop,mymindbackinthatgrocerystore.Tothatoldmaninhisapronandmyfistsflying,connectingsohardwithhisface.Thewetcrunchofcartilageandhisold,leatheryhandscuppedoverhishead,shakinglikeakidinatornadodrill.Thetissue-paperskinofhisarmsalreadystreakedwithbruises,andthebloodtricklingdownhischin,thickandstickyasitpooledonthegroundandseepedintothetilecracks.
“Ididn’tmeantodothat,”Imurmur.“Itoldyouthatalready.”
“Yeah,well,youdid.Somaybeyoushouldn’tbesurprisedwhenfolksgetalittleskittishwhenyoushowupunannounced.Whywereyouonhisporchinthefirstplace?”
Ihesitate.Partofmedoesn’tevenwanttotellhimaboutthemanIsawbefore.Icanstillpicturehisbrownrobeandstringygrayhair;thewayhehadstaredatme,throughme,hiseyesfoggedoverwithcataracts,likehehadn’tevenseenmeatall.
Thatmanwasn’tliketheothertimes,though.Iknowhewasn’t.Hewasn’tjustashadoworsomeblurryfiguredancinginmyperipheralvision;anoisemysleep-deprivedmindhadsimplymadeupandcastoutintotheworld.Animaginaryfriend.
No,thismanwasreal
“Therewassomeoneelse,”Isayatlast,forcingmyselftocontinue.“Iwaswalkingmydogaroundtheneighborhood.Late—like,oneinthemorning—andtherewasanoldermansittingonhisporch.”
IwaitforDoziertorespond,butinstead,heremainssilent.
“Hewasjustsittingthere,”Icontinue.“Staringintonothing.I’veneverseenhimbefore.Andwhywouldhebeouttheresolateatnight?WhatifhewasouttherethenightMasonwastaken?Whatifhesawsomething,or—”
“Doyoumakeitahabittowalkaroundyourneighborhoodatoneinthemorning?”thedetectiveasks,cuttingmeoff.“Seemsalittlestrange,evenwiththedog.”
Iexhale,pushingmypalmsintomyface.ThisconversationisremindingmeoflastMarch,thewaythismanhadpushedmetotheabsoluteedge.ThewayhewassomehowabletomakeeverythingIsaidsoundbad,wrong.Guilty.
“Ihavetroublesleeping,okay?”Idropmyhandsintomylapandlookathim,glaring.“Iwouldthinkyouwould,too,consideringmysonisstillmissing,andyoustillhaven’tfoundhim.”
We’rebothquiet,staringateachother,untilDoziersighs.Hewalkstowardme,finally,andsitsontheedgeofthecouch,takingcaretokeepafewfeetofdistancebetweenus.LikeI’madiseasehedoesn’twanttocatch.
“It’shighlyunlikelythatmansawanythingonthenightofthedisappearance,”hesays,hishandsonhisthighs.“Hedoesn’tlivethere.”
“Howdoyouknowthat?”Iask,aprickleinmychest.“Doyouknowthemanwhodoes?”
Dozierisquiet,staringatme,andIcantellhe’skeepingsomethingfromme.Somethingbig.
“Icanfindoutonmyown,”Icontinue.“It’lljustbeeasierifyoutellmeyourself.”
Thedetectivesighs,pinchingtheskinbetweenhiseyes.Finally,hespeaks.
“ThemanwhoownsthehouseisPaulHayes,”hesaysatlast.“Weknowwhoheisbecausehe’soutonparole—buthe’sbeenaperfectlylaw-abidingcitizenforyears.Hisparoleofficervisitshimonceamonth,andIcanassureyou:Helivesalone.Thereisnobodyelseinthathouse.Idon’tknowwhoyousaw,buthedoesn’tlivethere.Hewasn’touttherethenightMasonwastaken.”
“PaulHayes,”Irepeat,testingthenameoutonmytongue.Itsoundsvaguelyfamiliaragain,probablyfromwhenImethimlastyear.Aforgettablenameforaforgettableperson.“What’sheoutonparolefor?”
“Nothingviolent.Somedrugoffenses.”
“Canyougotalktohim?”Iask,rememberingwhatWaylonsaidaboutthecasehesolved.Thatgirlfoundinthebasement;theproofhidinginhisownhouse.“Maybegetawarrant—?”
“No,Ican’tgetawarrant,”hesnaps.“Jesus,Ican’tjustquestionanybodyaboutakidnappingwithoutsomekindofprobablecause.Andseeingsomeoneonhisporchatnightisnotprobablecause.”
Idon’tlikethewayhesaidthat—seeingsomeone—asifitbelongedinairquotes.Asifitdidn’tactuallyhappen;asifI’mjustmakingitup,orworse,asifIsomehowimaginedit.
“Isthereanythingelse?”heasks.
“Yes,”Isay,myvoicesharp.“Thereissomethingelse.TheemailIsentyou—”
“Right,”hesays,standingupfromthecouchwithagroan.“Itookalookatthearticleanddidn’tseeanysuspiciouscomments.”
“Well,that’sthething,”Isay,standingup,too.Iwalkovertothetableandsitbackdown,grabbingmylaptopandpullingthearticleup.“TheoneIwantedyoutolookat…itdisappeared.Whywouldsomeonewriteacommentandthendeleteit?”
“Whatdiditsay?”
“Itsaid‘He’sinabetterplace.’”
DetectiveDoziereyesmequietlybeforelettingoutasighandwalkingintomydiningroom.Iavoidhiseyesashetakesinthewall,thepicturesandmapandarticleclippingsclutteringupeverysurface.
“Christ,”hemutters.It’sprobablytriplethesizeitwasthelasttimehesawit,expandingslowlylikeableedingstain.
“Whywouldsomeonewritethat?”Iaskagain,ignoringhim.“Whywouldsomeonesaythat?”
“Therearealotofreasons,”hesaysatlast,leaningoverthetabletolookatmyscreen.“Maybeitwassomewell-meaningreligiousfanaticwhorealizedhowinsensitivetheircommentwasanddeletedit.Ormaybeyoumisreadit.Wasthisit?”
Hepointsatthescreen,totheverylastcomment:Suchabizarrecase.
“No,”Isay,shakingmyhead.Remembering.“Ididn’tmisreadit.Itsaid‘He’sinabetterplace.’”
“Look,”hesays,straighteningbackupagain.Iwatchashewalksovertotheentryway,scratchingRoscoe’searswithonehandasheopensthedoorwiththeother.“There’snothingIcandoaboutanyofthis.You’reinventingclueswheretheydon’texist,andyou’repullingresourcesawayfromotherangles.Doyouhaveanyideahowmanytimesyoucalledmelastweek?”
We’rebothquiet.Icanfeelmycheeksstartingtoburn,thementalimageofDetectiveDozierseeingmynameonhiscellphonescreenandwillfullyignoringitsearinginmymind.
“LeavePaulHayesalone,”hesaysatlast.“Andasalways,I’llcallyouwithanydevelopments.”
He’sdecidedthatthisvisitisover,then.That,onceagain,I’vewastedhistime.He’smadeithalfwayout,pullingthedoorshutbehindhim,whensomethingcomesovermethatIcan’tcontrol,risingupfromthepitofmybellylikestomachacid.
“Ididn’tkillmyson!”Iyellafterhim.“Ididn’thurthim.”
Idon’tknowwhyIsayit,butinthismoment,itfeelslikeIhaveto.It’sthesamewayIfeeleverytimeI’mstandingonstage,takinginallthoselooksfromtheaudience:doubtful,distrusting.Likethey’rejustwaitingformetofail,camerasout,readytodocumentitfortheirownsickpleasureandplasteritacrosstheinternetfortheworldtosee.Ormaybeit’sthewaythismanhasbeendismissingmeforoverayear—thewayhelooksatmewithsmugeyesandasmirk,likeheknowssomethingIdon’t—ormeetsallmyquestionswithgroansandsighsinsteadofactualanswers.Likehedoesn’tbelievehe’llevercatchthepersonresponsible—because,inhismind,thepersonresponsibleisme
Ormaybe—afterseeingmyselfonthatlaptopscreenandallthosememoriesofMargaretthataresuddenlysorawandreal—maybeIneedtobelieveit,too.
“Ididn’tdoanythingwrong,”Isay,quieternow,embarrassedatthesoundofmyownvoice.
DetectiveDozierstopsmid-stepandturnsaroundslowly.Hishandisstillhangingofftheknobashelooksatme,eyebrowsraised,atugofsatisfactiononhislips,likehe’sjustwonsomekindofdarebetweenus.
“Ineversaidyoudid.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE
THEN
I’msittingontheedgeofmybed,stillinmynightgown.Ishutthewindowearlier,eventhoughit’sstillhotinthehouse—eventhough,withoutthebreeze,theairisstickyandstill.Ican’tstandthesmellanymore:thesmellofthemarsh.Thesmellofdeath,thewayitcomescreepingthroughthecrackedwindowpane,snakingitswaybeneathmynostrilslikeafingerbeckoningmeclose.
“You’regoingtohavetolistentomeverycarefully,”Dadsaysnow,hisvoiceurgentandlow.Ican’tbringmyselftofacehim,sittingnexttomeonthebed,soinstead,Istareatthecarpet.“Izzy,thepolicewillbehereanyminute.They’regoingtowanttotalktoyouaboutwhathappenedlastnight.”
“ButIdon’tknowwhathappenedlastnight—”
“That’sright,”hesays.“Youdon’tknow.Youweresleeping.”
Ilookupathim,eyebrowsbunched.Hisunspokenwordshangheavybetweenus,animplicationthatitwouldbewisetodoexactlyashesays.
“Butsometimes,youknow…”Istop,lookbackdownatmylapasItrytoworkouthowtophraseit.“Sometimes,Igetupanddothings—”
“Notlastnight,”hesays,shakinghishead.“Lastnight,youwereasleepthewholetime.Youdon’tevenneedtobringthatup.”
“ButwhenIwokeup—”
“Whenyouwokeup,youcamedownstairsandfoundyourmotherandmeseatedatthekitchentable,”heinterrupts.“Andthat’swhenwetoldyouwhathappened.”
“Butwhatdidhappen?”Iask,myvoicepainfullyshrill.I’mtiredofdancingaroundit;tiredofspeakingincode.Ihaveafeeling,deepdown,thatIknowwhattheansweris,butIjustneedtohearhimsayit.“Dad,whathappenedtoMargaret?”
“She’s…gone,Isabelle.Shedied.”
Iknewitfromthewaymyparentshadlookedatmeinthekitchen—mymother,thosewaxyeyes,andthewayshepushedpastmesoangrily.IknewitfromthemomentIrolledoverandnoticedMargaretmissingfrombed,really.Itwaslikeaninstinct,barelythere.Liketheworldwassomehowdifferent,smaller,withoutherinit.Afterall,deathhauntsthisplace—italwayshas.Inaway,italmostfeelslikeit’sbeenpickingusoff,onebyone.Likeit’ssomekindoftoll,andourdebtisnotyetpaid.
Ihearthesuddenslamofcardoorsoutside,signalingthepolicehavearrived.Dadgetsupquicklyandpatsmyleg,lookingdownatmeonelasttime.
“Onlyspeakwhenspokento,”hesays.“Don’tsayanythingunlessit’sinresponsetoaquestion.”
Inod.
“ExactlyasIsaid,”herepeats.Thenheslipsintothehallwayandshutsthedoorbehindhim.
I’vebeenlisteningtothenoisesdownstairsforawhilenow:themurmuring,thewhispers.Thesoundofpeoplewalkingaroundthehouse,inspectingthings.Finally,Ihearaknockonmydoor—agentle,politepoundingthatsays:Idon’tneedyourpermission;I’mcominginanyway.It’snothingmorethanacourtesy,Iknow.Anopportunityformetosteelmyself,steadymybreathing.
Iglanceatthedoor.
“Isabelle,sweetheart,thisisChiefMontgomery.”Mydadpokeshisheadinsidebeforepushingthedooropen.Iseeanothermanbesidehim:tallandlankywithaheadtheshapeandshineofacueball.“He’sheretoaskyouafewquestions.”
Inod,lookdownatmyhandsclaspedinmylap,andrepeatDad’slinesinmymindoverandoveragain.Itdoesn’tfeellikealie,really,becauseIdon’tknowwhathappened—Iwouldn’tevenknowifIwaslying—butsomehow,itdoesn’tfeellikethetruth,either.
“Hi,Isabelle.”ChiefMontgomerywalksacrossmybedroom,takingaseatnexttomeonthemattress.Ihearthespringscreak,feelmyweighttilttowardhim.“DoyoumindifIsithere?”
Ishakemyhead,eventhoughhe’salreadysitting.
“Canyoutellmewhatyourememberaboutlastnight?Anythingunusualhappen?”
Ilookupattheman,thewayhisforeheadseemstoconnectseamlesslywithhisscalp,bothshinyandsleekwithsweat.HeremindsmeofacopperheadMargaretandIfoundinourbackyardonce:thepointynose,theslit-likeeyes.Margaretwantedtokeepit,giveitaname,butDaddecapitateditwithashovelwithoutasecondthought.I’llneverforgetthecrunchitmadewhenthatmetalmadecontact;themucusystringsofbloodandentrailsthathungoutofitsnecklikesoggynoodles.Thewaythebodykeptmovingforaminute,writhingaroundonthegroundlikeitdidn’tevenknowitwasdead.
Iglanceatmydad,registerhisgentlelittlenod.
“Nothingunusual,”Isay,andthat’sthetruth,sortof.Theairconditionerwasout,andMargarethadsleptinmyroom.Thatwaskindofunusual.“Wehadabath,thenwegotintobed.”
“Okay,”ChiefMontgomerysays.“Andaroundwhattimewasthat?”
Ishrug.“Nine?”
“Didyougetoutofbedforanyreason?Togotothebathroommaybe,orgetadrinkofwater?”
Iglanceatmydadagain,thenimmediatelybackdowntomylap.“No.Iwasasleepthewholenight.”
“Okay,”hesays,nodding.“Okay,andwhataboutMargaret?Didyouseehergetoutofbed?”
“No,”Isayagain.“Iwassleeping.”
“Didyouhearanything?”
“No.”
“Noteventhroughthatwindow?”
Ilookupattheman;he’spointingatthewall,mywindow,facingthemarsh.
“No,”Isayagain.“Itwasclosed.”
“Whywasitclosed?It’shotinhere.”Hepullsahandkerchiefoutofhispocketandwipeshishead,likehewantstoemphasizethefactthathe’ssweating.Immediately,Iseelittlebeadsofitsqueezebacktothesurface,likehisscalpismadeofmesh.“Surelyyoucouldhaveusedsomebreeze,right?Andifthewindowwasopen,maybeyoumighthaveheardsomethinginthewater?Splashingoryelling?”
“No,”Isayagain.“Itwasn’topen.I…don’tlikethesmell.”
ChiefMontgomerynods.“Okay,”hesays,thesweattricklingdownhisnecknow.“Okay.Andaboutwhattimedidyougetupthismorning?”
Iwanttolookatmydadagain,butsomethingtellsmeIshouldn’tkeepdoingthat.ThatIshouldkeepmyeyesstraightahead,trainedonthemaninfrontofme.
“Seven?”
“Areyoualwayssuchanearlybird?”
“Iguess.”
“AndwasMargaretawakewhenyougotup?”
“I’mnotsure.”
Heshiftsonthemattress,crossinghislegs,andIdon’tlikethewaythemovementismakingmeslideclosertohimagain.Ourlegsaretouching,andIwanttoscootback,butatthesametime,I’mafraidtomove.
“Isabelle,I’mgonnaneedyourhelponthis,okay?Ihearyouandyoursisterwereclose.”
Inod—were—andbeforeIcanlookaway,Ifeelatearescape,makingitswaydownmycheek.Iliftmyarmandwipeitawaywiththebackofmyhand.
“Whathappenedthismorningafteryouwokeup?Isthereanythingunusualthatyoucanremember?Anythingatalloutofplace?”
Ithinkaboutgettingup,unsteadyandslow,theoverwhelmingsmellofthemarshinmybedroomthathassinceairedout.Thewateronthecarpetthatsquishedbetweenmytoes,nowclosetodry.Runningintothebathroom,findingtowelsonmyfloor;towelsthatmydadpickedupanddroppedintothewashingmachine,tidyingupbehindhim.ThefactthatIwaswearingadifferentnightgownfromtheoneIfellasleepin,orthedriedmudIfeltsmearedbehindmyear.Iliftmyhandnowandtouchthatsamelittlepatchofskin.It’sclean.Beforethepolicegothere,Ihadscrubbeditraw.ErasedthefingermarkslikeIhadtriedtoerasethefootstepsonmycarpet.
LikeifIcouldjustmakethemdisappear,itwouldmeanthattheywerenevereventheretobeginwith.
“No,”Isayatlast.“Nothingoutofplace.Iwentdownstairs,intothekitchen,andfoundmyparents.Andthat’swhen…that’swhentheytoldmeaboutMargaret.Thatshehadanaccident.”
“Okay.”Henods.“Okay,sweetheart,that’sallIneed.Youdidgreat.”
Hepatsmykneewithhishandbeforestandingupandwalkingbacktowardmyfather.Thentheybothsmileinmydirectionbeforesteppingintothehallwayandshuttingthedoorbehindthem.
Istayseatedforawhile,staringatthewallinfrontofme,myheartpoundinginmychest.I’veneverlikedtolie.Italwaysmakesmefeelsowrong,soashamed,butearlierthismorning,whenDadwaswalkingmethroughit,hehadsaidthatsometimesaliecanbeagoodthingifit’sdonefortherightreasons.
ItremindedmeofalieItoldforMargaretonce,sometimelastyear,aftershehadbrokenmymother’scrystalvase.Sheknewnottotouchit—itwasanantique;likesomanyotherthingsinthishouse,off-limits—butshediditanyway,standingonabarstoolonhertiptoes,reachingforitwithoutstretchedhands.ShehadjustpickedMomsomeflowersfromoutside,butbeforeshecoulddisplaythem,herrightfootslipped,sendingthethingcrashingdownontothetile,shatteringeverywhere.Momwasangry,ofcourse—furious—butIknewMargaretdidn’tmeanit.Shedidn’tmeantobreakanything.Sorightthen,inthemiddleofherscolding,Isteppedforwardandtooktheblame.
Maybethiswaslikethat,Ireason.Agoodlie.MaybeDadwantsmetolietoprotectMargaret.Butsomehow,deepdown,Iknowthat’snotright.Iknowit’snotMargarethe’sprotecting.
Somehow,Iknowthatit’sme.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
NOW
Ican’tkeepwatchingthesevideos—notafterthatvisitfromDozier.Ifeelrattled,restless,likemyveinshavemorphedintolivewiresbuzzingwithelectricalcharge.
I’mhavingahardtimeprocessingeverythinghejusttoldme:thatthatcommentcould’vebeenafigmentofmyownimagination;thatPaulHayeslivesalone.Isupposeit’spossiblehehadcompany—thatmaybethatoldmanonhisporchwasvisitingfortheweek,someonecompletelyharmless—butstill.Whywashesittingoutthereinthemiddleofthenight?Whyhadheignoredme?HadheevenseenthatIwasthere?
And,evenmoreterrifying:Washeeventhere?
Ishakemyhead,pacearoundthefloorforabit,tryingtorelax.I’llgobacktothehousetonight,seeifhe’sstillthere.MaybeIshouldbringWaylonwithme,justtobesurethatheseeshim,too.Andifhedoes,I’llknow.I’llknowI’mnotcrazy.
IgrabmyphoneandopenupFacebook,typinginhisname:PaulHayes.IquicklyrealizethattherearealotofPaulHayesesoutthere—anattorneyinTexaswithawide-brimmedhat;anOklahomateenagerwithagianttruck.ThereareevenafewrighthereinSavannah,holdingupdeerandfishandotherdeadthings,butnoneofthemarehim.
IopenupInstagramnext,dothesamesearch,andscroll.
Nothing.Notasinglething.
Ilowermyphone,chewontheinsideofmycheek,andthink.Totheoutsideworld,PaulHayesseemsnottoexist—andsuddenly,Iwonderifthat’sonpurpose.Iwonderifhewasforgettableforareason.WhenItalkedtohimlastyear,knockingonthatdoorwithMason’sposterinhand,hehadbeentheperfectcombinationofunremarkable:politebutnotoverlyfriendly,cooperativebutnotespeciallyhelpful.Likesomeonewhodidn’twanttoraiseanyflags.Someonewhowantedtodisappearintotheshadows.
Someonewithsomethingtohide.
Isupposeitisn’tacrimetolikeyourprivacy,butstill.Hehasarecord.He’soutonparole.Hewasatthevigil.Hisporchhasadirectviewintomybackyard.
It’ssomething—alead,definitely.AndonethatIneedtoknowmoreabout.
Ialsoneedtoknowmoreaboutmysleepwalking.Ineedtofindoutifitmeansanything,and—Iswallow,closemyeyes—ifIcouldhavedonesomethingagain.SomethingIdon’tremember.IlookdownanddialDr.Harris’snumbernext,listeningtotheringingbeforeitflipstovoicemail.ThenIleaveaquickmessage,askingtobepenciledinassoonaspossible.
Ihangup,butbeforeIcanputmyphonedown,Ifeelitstarttovibrateinmyhand.
“Waylon,”Isay,answeringimmediatelyafterseeinghisnameonthescreen.“You’llneverguess—”
“Hey,Isabelle,”heinterrupts,soundingbreathlessandexcited.“JustgotafewwordsinwithDetectiveDozier.”
Istop,mymouthhangingopenasIglanceattheclock.Dozierjustlefthereafewminutesago.There’snowayhecouldhavegottentothestationthatfast.
“Oh,”Isay,feelingmycheeksflushwithred,myheartbeatrising.“Andhowdidthatgo?”
“Great.He’sbeingcooperative,buthedidsayhedoesn’tknowanythingaboutyourneighbor.I’msorry.”
Iopenmymouthtorespondagain,butthewordsdon’tcomeout.
“I’mheadingtolunchalittleearly,”hesays,oblivioustothethoughtsracingaroundinmymind.“Stillwanttomeet?”
I’mstunned,standinginplace,tryingtoworkthroughtheimplicationsofthisconversation.Whatitallmeans.
“Isabelle?”
“Yeah.”Ifinallymanagetocroakoutaword,althoughrightnow,lunchwithWaylonisthelastthingIwanttodo.“Yeah,soundsgood.”
“Great,”hesays.“MeetyouatFramboiseinthirty.I’lltellyouallaboutit.”
Thelinegoesdead,andIstandinsilence,thephonestillpushedtomyear.ThenIswallow,lowermyarmslowly,ablanketofdreaddescendingovermeasIlookaroundmyhouse,atallofWaylon’sthingsclutteredaroundtheroom:hisjacketflungoverthediningroomchair,hissuitcasestackedinthehallwaycorner.Hismugonthecounter,dripsofcoffeethattouchedhislipsstillstainingtherim.Therearepiecesofhimeverywhere,thesemicroscopiccluesofanotherlifeinmyhomelikedustonfurniture,visibleonlywhenyoucatchaglimpseinjusttherightlight.
Andthat’swhenthegravityofitallfullyhitsme.
Waylonsoughtmeoutonthatairplane.Witharushofcertainty,Iknowitinmybones.Hewaslookingforme,specifically;maybeheevenwenttoTrueCrimeContomeetme.Hehadfoundmesittingthere,thatemptyseatnexttome,andintroducedhimself.Handedmehiscard.ThenhecamehereandgavemeatasteofwhatheknewIwanted:someonetolisten,someonetounderstand.Someonetocare.Itwasonlyabite,though.Onlyenoughtosatisfythecraving.Andthenhethreatenedtogo,leavingmedesperate:ajunkyinneedofjustonemorefix,soIhadofferedmyhometomakehimstay.
Nowthismanwhocameintomylifejustoneweekagohasmanagedtoweaselhiswayinsocompletely,Irealizethereisnowayitwasn’torchestrated.Thereisnowayitwasn’tplanned.
Ithinkabouttheviolenceagain,likeIhavesomanytimesoverthispastyear.Abouthowsometimes,itpresentsitselfasashotgunblast,loudandmessy,sprayinggoreagainstthewall—butothertimes,it’sasquietasawhisper:ahandfulofswallowedpillsorascreamunderwater.Astrangerslippingintoawindowatnightbeforeleavingwithoutatrace.Butthentherearetheothertimes,too,whenitcomesmaskedassomethingelse.Whenit’sinvitedinside,steppingpolitelythroughthefrontdoorwearingadisguise:anally,afriend.
IthoughtWayloncared.Ithoughthewantedtohelp.ButnowIdon’tknowwhyhe’shere.Idon’tknowwhathewants.
NowIknowthathe’slying.Iknowthathehasasecret,too.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
OnmywaytoFramboise,Igetanotherphonecall.Thistime,it’sDr.Harris,callingmeback.
“Isabelle,”hesays,seeminglyhappytohearfromme.I’vebeenavoidinghim,Iknow,formonthsnow.There’sanexpectationwithdoctorsthatwiththeirhelp,youshouldbegettingbetter;thatallyourproblemsshouldslowlydissolvelikesaltinwater,leavingnothingbehindbutthebittertasteofwhatusedtobe.Butclearly,I’mnot.They’renot.“Sorryformissingyourcall.Iwaswithaclient.”
“Yeah,hi,”Isay,holdingmyphonebetweenmycheekandshoulder.I’minthecar,tenminutesfromtherestaurant.“That’sokay.IwasjustwonderingifIcouldmakeanappointment—”
“Yes,yourvoicemailrequestedassoonaspossible.Iseverythingokay?”
“I’mfine,”Ilie.“Ijusthavesomequestionsforyou.Wantedtopickyourbrain.”
“Doesthisafternoonwork?I’vehadacancellation.”
Ilookattheclockinmycar;it’salreadypastnoon.“Whattime?”
“Onethirty?”
Idrummyfingersagainstthewheel.IwanttohearwhatWaylonhastosay—no,IneedtohearwhatWaylonhastosay—abouthisfictionalmeetingwithDetectiveDozier,hislieregardingPaulHayes.Ineedtoknowwhathe’safter,whyhe’shere.Whyhe’slyingtome.Butatthesametime,IknowI’llseehimtonight,too.There’snoavoidingthatnow.Noavoidinghim.
“Sure,”Isay,decidingonthespottocancellunchandtakethisappointmentinstead.Afterall,asmuchasI’mafraidofallthereasonswhyWaylonmaybelyingtome—ofwhathe’sdoinginmyhouse,mylife—I’mmoreafraidofwhatIsawonthatlaptopscreen.“I’llseeyouatonethirty.”
OnceIarrive,theofficefeelsfamiliaryetforeign,likewalkingintoyourownhomeinadream.Iusedtocomeheresooften—twiceaweekeveryweek,startinglastJuly—thatIknewitinchbyinch.Butnowsomanylittlethingshavechanged,itdoesn’tfeelquiteright.Iknowthey’resupposedtobesubtlealterations,aslowredecorationoverthepastsixmonths,butallatonce,itfeelsjarring,likeseeingthedrasticchangesinachildaftertoomuchtimeapart.
Allofitismakingmefeeluneasy,likeI’minthewrongplace.
“Howareyousleeping?”Dr.Harrisasksnow,leaningforward.HishairisabitlongerthanitwasthelasttimeIsawhim,theoldstubbleonhischingrownoutintothebeginningsofabeard.“Anybetterthanbefore?”
“Yes,better,”Ilie.“Muchbetter.”
“That’sfantastic,”hesays,pleasedwithhimself.“Areyoufollowingmyprotocol?Gettingenoughexercise,cuttingoutalcoholandcaffeine—”
“Yes,”Ilieagain,becauseIdon’twanttorehashthiswithhim.Ineedcaffeinetogetanythingdoneduringtheday;withoutit,Imightaswellbeazombie.Andalcohol…well,itfeelslikeIneedthat,too,sometimes.Justfordifferentreasons.
“Haveyoubeencreatingarelaxingnighttimeroutinelikewetalkedabout?Cuttingoutelectronics,stressfultriggers—”
“Yes.”
Theliesarecomingtooeasilynow,buthowamIsupposedtocreatearelaxingnighttimeroutinewhenIlivethewaythatIdo—alwaysalone,alwaysonedge,alwayswaitingforMasontocomehome?Myentireexistenceisastressfultrigger;myhousethesceneofacrimethatremainsperpetuallyunsolved.
“Cuttingdownondaytimenaps?”
Ithinkaboutallmylittlemicrosleeps;thoseminutesorhoursofunaccounted-fortime.Aboutblinkingmyeyes,findingsomeonestaringatme—Waylon,orastranger—concernintheireyes.Butit’snotasifI’mdoingthatonpurpose.AsifIhaveanycontrol.Soagain,Inod.
“Howaboutthesleepingpills?”heasks.“Haveyoubeentakingthose?”
“Onoccasion,”Isay.“Butthestrengthstillseemsabitlow.”
“You’reonthehighestdosage.”
“Iknow.”
Dr.Harriseyesme,shiftinginhischair.
“So,whatisityouwantedtotalktomeabout?”heasks,spinningapenbetweenhisfingerslikeabaton.“Youmentionedyouhadsomequestions.”
“Yes.Notaboutinsomnia,though.Aboutsleepwalking,actually.”
“Ah,”hesays,leaningbackwithaplayfulgrin.“Youusedtobeasleepwalker,correct?Irememberdiscussingthat.”
“WhenIwasakid.Itusedtohappenprettyfrequently.”
“That’snotuncommoninadolescence.”
“Whattriggersit,exactly?”
“Oh,lotsofthings,”hesays.“Fatigue,irregularsleepschedules.Highfever,somemedications,trauma,genetics,stress.Mostofthetime,though,itjusthappens.”
“Fornorealreason?”
“Yes,”hesays.“Duringstagesthreeandfourofdeepsleep.It’scalleddisassociatedarousal.Somepartsofthebrainareasleepwhileothersarestillawake.”
“Iwasjustwondering,”Isay,lookingdownatmylap.Moreandmore,thisisfeelinglikethatmorningwithChiefMontgomery:him,sittingtoocloseinmybedroom,andme,hidingthetruth.Divertingmyeyes.Tooafraidofwhathemightfindthere:mysecret,mylie,curledupsomewheredeepinmypupilslikeahibernatinganimal.“Isitpossibleforsomeonetodosomethingbadwhilethey’resleepwalking?Andnotknowit?Notremember?”
“Definebad,”hesays,restinghischininhishand.“Sometimespeopleurinateintheirclosets,forexample,orventureoutside.Haveentireconversations,even.Thatcanbeembarrassing.”
“No,Imean,cantheydosomething…dangerous,”Iask,lookingupathim.“Violent.”
“It’srare,”hesays,speakingslowly.“Butsometimespeoplewilltrytodrivecarsorclimboutofwindows,andthatcanofcoursebeverydangerous—”
“Whatabouttootherpeople?”
Dr.Harrisstopstalking.Hiseyesnarrow.“Whyareyouasking?”
“IthinkmaybeI’vestartedagain.”ThestoryIdevelopedinthecaronthewayoverflowsfrommylipssonaturallynow,justthewayIpracticed.“Iwokeuptheothermorningandthereweresomethingsrearrangedinmylivingroom,thingsIdon’tremembermoving.Itwasalittleunsettling.”
IrememberallthosemorningswhenIwasyounger,findingmybelongingsoutofplace:myshoesintwodifferentspots,myhairbrushinthelaundryroom.ThewayIwouldpickthemup,eyethemcuriously,asiftheyhadsproutedlegsinthenightandroamedaroundthehouseontheirown.
“I’msureitwas,”hesays.“Butrestassured,youhavenothingtoworryabout.Justkeepyourdoorslockedsoyoudon’twanderoutside,maybesetanalarm.Abouttwopercentofchildrengoontobecomeadultsleepwalkers,soconsideringyourhistory,I’mnotexactlysurprised.”
“Okay,”Isay,nodding.“That’sgoodtoknow.Sonoonehasever…Idon’tknow,killedsomeoneintheirsleep,then?”
Ismile,letoutalittlelaugh,tryingtosignalthatI’mkidding.ThatIdon’tactuallybelieveittobepossible.ThatIhaven’tbeenthinkingit,wonderingit,eversinceIwasachildbutinsteadjusteraseditfrommymind—likethosefootprints,thatmud—pretendingthethoughtwasnevereventheretobeginwith.
“Homicidalsleepwalking,”Dr.Harrissays,smilingback.“Believeitornot,ithashappened.Butagain,it’sveryrare.”
Ifeelthatfamiliarpaininmystomach,likesomeone’stakingameatgrindertomyinsides,turningmyorganstochum.
“ThemostfamousisthecaseofKennethParks,”hecontinues.“Forthemurderofhismother-in-lawandattemptedmurderofhisfather-in-lawin1987.”
“Whatdidhedo?”
“Drovefourteenmiles,lethimselfintotheirhousewithhiskey,andbludgeonedhertodeathwithatireiron.Thenhetriedtostranglehisfather-in-lawbeforegettingbackinhiscaranddrivingaway.”
“Allthatwhilehewassleeping?”
Dr.Harrisshrugs.“Fiveneurologicalexpertsseemedtothinkso.Hewasacquitted.”
“Howcouldthatbepossible?”
“Thesubconsciousmindisbothbeautifulandmysterious,”hesays,tappinghisforeheadwithhispen.“Theupperfrontallobeisthemostevolvedpartofthebrain,wheremoralteachinglives.Whenwesleepwalk,thatpartofthebrainisfastasleep.Soasleepwalkercoulddothings,terriblethings,thattheywouldneverdoiftheywereawake.Theycan’tdifferentiatebetweenrightandwrong.”
Iswallow,noddingalong,tryingtoactinterestedbutdetached.Likethisisasimplecuriosityandnothingmore.
“It’slikeyourbodyisonautopilot,butofcourse,mostcasesaren’tquitethatextreme,”hecontinues.“Thesleepwalkermightbegoingabouttheirregularroutine,perhaps—likeattemptingtodrivetowork,shavetheirneck—andaccidentallykillsomeone,orthemselves,intheprocess.”
IthinkbacktoMason’snursery—tome,ashadowdriftingdownthehall,stoppinginfrontofhisdoor.Openingit,enteringhisbedroom,thewayIhaddonesomanytimesbefore.
“Ormaybetheybecomestartledandattackabystander,”hecontinues.“That’swherethesayingcomesfrom:Neverwakeasleepwalker.”
Backinmybedroom,lyingtherewithMargaret.Herwideeyesstaringintomine,herfacepushedintothatpillow.
“Didyouwakeme?”Ihadasked,thatflareofembarrassmentcreepingupmynecklikeflameslickingatwalls.
“MomsaidnottoIt’sdangerous.”
“It’snotdangerous,”Ihadsaid.“That’sanoldwives’tale.”
“Wouldthepersonremember?”Iasknow.“Doingsomethinglikethat?”
“Unlesstheywakeupmid-attack,notusually,no,”hesays.“Asleepwalkerrarelyrememberstheirepisodeinthemorning—thoughsometimes,theycan.It’slikerecallingadream.”
Iclearmythroatandstandupfromthechairquickly,desperatetogetoutofhere.
“Thankyou,”Isay.“Thatwasveryhelpful.”
“Yousurethat’severything?”heasks,standingwithme.“Istillhaveanotherthirtyminutesbeforemynextappointment.”
“Yeah,that’severything.Ijustwantedtomakesure,youknow,thatitwassafe.”
“Forthemostpart,perfectlysafe,”hesays,stuffinghishandsinhispockets.Inod,turntoleave,andfeelhiseyesonmybackasImakemywaytothedoor.“ButIsabelle—?”
“Yeah?”Iask,swingingaround.Myhandisonhisdoorknob;I’malmostgone
“Youknowwhat’smoredangerousthansleepwalking?”
“What’sthat?”
“Sleepdeprivation,”hesays.“Really.Itleadstoallsortsofissues.”
“Iknow,”Ismirk.“I’maware.”
“I’mbeingserious,”hesays,eyingmeagain,unsmiling,likeheisn’tquitesureifheshouldletmeleave.“Forgetthelethargy,thememoryproblems,thesensorydisruptions.Ifitgetssevereenough,itcanleadtohallucinations,delusions.Reallybadstuff.”
“Iknow,”Isayagain,bitingmylip.
Helooksatmeforabeatmore,likehe’stryingtosendmesomekindofmessage,untilfinally,hesitsbackdown,placinghishandsonhisdesk.
“Justtrytogetsomesleep,okay?Promiseme.”
“Sure,”Isay,openingthedoorandsteppingintothelobby.I’mafraidofhoweasilythey’recomingnow,thelies,risingupfromthepitofmybellyandgurglingoutofmymouthliketheblackalgaespewingfromthatwide,stonemouth.“Ipromise.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
AfterAllison’smemorial,Bencameover.Hedidn’ttellmehewasgoingto;Ididn’task.ButwhenIheardaknockonmydoorthatnight,late,IknewIwouldfindhimstandingontheothersideit.Ineverquestionedhowheknewmyaddress,andhonestly,Ididn’tcare.Ijustopenedthedoorandtookastepback,lettinghiminlikeIhadlethimintomylifesomanytimesbefore.Withoutquestion.
Irememberhewasstillwearinghissuit—thesuithehadputonthatmorning,thesuithehadwornasheburiedhiswife—andwithinminutes,itwasbeingpeeledoffbyme.Hisjacketslumpedtotheground,leftinaheapnexttotheshoesIhadwalkedthreemileshomein,theirheelsworndowntostubsandmyheelsbloodyandraw.Therewasaclumsykindofurgencytoit,myfingersfumblingtheirwaydownhisbuttons,liketrippingofftheedgeofacliff.Likeifwedidn’tjustleapintoitatthatverymoment—mindsblank,bodiesonautopilot—wewouldcometooursensesandbackawayslowly.Wewouldstop,thinkaboutwhatweweredoing,andrealizehowhorriblywrongitallwas.
Butwedidn’t.Wedidn’tstop.
Afterward,welaytogetherinsilence,fingersintertwined,inbed.Istillsleptonthesamesadlittlemattressfrommychildhoodbedroom,Margaret’ssmellseepedsomewheredeepintothethreadslikeastain.LyingtherewithBenmademefeeltoojuvenile,tooyoung,rememberingthewaymysisterandIwouldpullthecoversoverourheadsandtelleachotherstorieswithflashlights,tryingtodrownoutthewhisperedargumentsorfull-blownscreamscomingfromsomewheredownthehall.
“Youknowwecan’ttellanybodyaboutthis,”Bensaidafteracoupleminutesofquiet,hishandsinmyhair.IwastryingtoignoretheweddingbandIcouldstillfeelonhisfinger.Thecoolpinchofitonmyskin.“Notyet.”
Ilookedathim,myeyestracinghisprofileinthedark.
“Withwork,”heclarified.“Icouldlosemyjob.Youcould,too.”
“Oh,right.Ofcourse.”
“We’llfindaway,”hesaid,kissingmyforeheadbeforerollingoverandstandingupwithagroan.“Withtime.”
Irememberwatchinghimpullonhisboxersandwalkintothebathroom,myeyesdrinkinghiminasifIwerepreparingforanotherdroughtwithouthim.Ididn’tknowhowtofeelinthatmoment.Therehadbeenaquestionlingeringinthebackofmymindallday,thisunspokenseedofdoubtthatplanteditselfthemomentBenhadpulledmetohimonthesideofthathouse,itsspindlyrootssnakingtheirwaythroughmybrain,diggingindeepandgrowingwild.Eversincehisfingerswovethemselvesintomyhairandhislipsattachedtomine,Icouldn’thelpbutwonder:IfAllisonhadn’tdied,wouldthishaveeverhappened?
Ifshehadn’tdied,wouldBenhaveeverchosenme?
Maybethiswasjusthisgrieftalking.Maybehecouldn’tbearthethoughtofbeingalone,goinghometoanemptyhouse—thesamehousewherehehadfoundher,sprawledacrossthetile,ahollowbottleofpillsinherpalmandthecrustsofdriedspitcakedtoherlip.Iimaginedhimstandinginmydoorway,thosedarkpuddlesbeneathhiseyeslikedirtyrainwatercollectinginthestreet.Maybetomorrowmorninghe’dwakeup,clearhisthroat,andgluethosesameeyestothefloor,pronouncingthisamistake:something,likethatfirstnighttogether,thatweshouldneverspeakofagain.
Afterall,BenhadbeenfacedwithmakingthechoicebetweenAllisonandmebefore,andeverysingletime,hechoseher.Hechoseherthatnightattheoysterroastwhenhewalkedawayfrommeandnevercameback.Hechoseherduringalloursecreteveningstogether,nursinghisbeer,hisfingerspeelingatthedamplabelbeforestandingup,noddinghishead,andleavingmealonewithnothingbutapileofscrapsonthebartop.WhenAllisonwasalive,hechoseherinsteadofmeoverandoverandoveragain,thatmuchhadbeenpainfullyclear.Soinaway,asIlaythereinthedark—imaginingAllisonbeingloweredintothedirt,hertanskinnowpaleandlifeless;thoselipsthathadoncebreathedasecretintomyearpursedandstill—apartofmewasglad.BecauseIknewthatBenwouldn’thavetochooseanymore.Thechoicehadbeenmadeforhim.
Really,heneverevenhadachoiceatall.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
ItoldWaylonIhadastomachbug.Thatwasmyexcuseformissinglunch—andmyexcuseforlockingmyselfinmybedroomallday,pretendingtosleepitoff.
Iwanttotalktohim,Ido.IneedtohearhislieaboutvisitingDozieratthepolicestation,trytoworkoutwhatitisthathe’sdoinghere.Whathewants.ButIneedtofigureoutmystrategyfirst.IneedtofigureouthowI’mgoingtorespond;ifI’mgoingtoconfronthim,demandanswers,orsimplyplaydumb,keepupthecharade,andseewhereittakesme.
IgrabbedmylaptopassoonasIgothome,slippingquietlyintomyroomandcrawlingintobed,bidingmytime.Listeningtothesoundofhimtiptoeingaroundthehouseonhisown:theflushofthetoilet,aclearedthroat.Icouldsensehimoutsidemybedroomdooronoccasion,hovering;Ipicturedhishandfloatingabovemydoorknob,consideringwhetherornotheshouldknockbeforedeciding,finally,topullitbackandwalkaway.Ican’thelpbutwonderwhathe’sbeendoingwithfreereinofmyhome:siftingthroughmymail,maybe,orpokingaroundinthetrash.TryingtostealanintimatelookintomylifebyanalyzingwhichbrandofcondimentsIbuyorwhatappointmentsIhavescrawledinmycalendar.
Peopletendtostashtheirdirtiestsecretsinthemostcommonofplaces.
Allthewhile,I’vebeenwatchingmorerecordingsfromMason’sbabymonitor,methodicallyworkingmywaythrougheachday.I’veseenmyselfafewmoretimes,moseyingintohisnurseryinthemiddleofthenight:stopping,staring.Butthat’sit.Idon’tmoveanycloserthanmid-room;Idon’tdoanythingotherthanjuststandthere,swayingalittle,untilatsomepoint,Iturnaroundandwalkbackout.
It’saroundtwointhemorninginthevideoI’mwatchingnow,andthereIamagain:standinginapairofwaffle-knitpajamas,armsrigidatmysides,longhairflowingovermyshoulderslikesnarledseaweed.It’sunsettling,seeingmethere.Mysleepwalkingcaughtoncamera.Butsofar,Ihaven’tdoneanythingalarming.EverytimeIseemyselfwalkinside,Ifeelmystomachclench;butthen,everytimeIturnaroundandwalkbackout,itrelaxesagain,likeamusclebeingprickedwithaneedle.
Eventually,Istarttowonderifmaybethey’reright.Allofthem.DetectiveDozieraccusingmeofinventingclueswheretheydon’texist;Dr.Harrissayingit’snormal.I’mnormal.
Istarttowonderifmaybethisisperfectlyharmless.MaybeIhavenothingtoworryaboutafterall.
IhearasoundfromthelivingroomandhitPause,mybodyonscreenfrozenintime.It’sthecreakofthecouchasWaylonstandsup,turnsofftheTV,andtossestheremoteontothecushions.It’slatenow,wellaftermidnight,andIhearhimwalkdownthehall,pastmybedroomandintotheguestroom,shuttingthedoorbehindhim.
Iholdmybreath,listening.Hearingtheshuffleofhisfeetnextdoor,theflickofthelightswitch.Thesqueakofthespringsasheclimbsintobed.Iimaginehimpullingthecoversoverhischest,hisbodygrowingheavy,relaxingintothemattress.
AndthenIwait.
Aftertwentyminutes,Islideoutofbedandpadacrosstheroomtowardthedoor.Roscoeperksup,andIholdoutmyhand,silencinghimbeforehecanmakeanoise.ThenIpushmyeartothewood,listeningsomemore.Ihearnosignsoflife;nonoisescomingfromhisroom
OnlythendoIdecidethatit’ssafe.
Iopenmydoorandcreepintothehallway,thehousecompletelydark.Roscoejumpsfromthebedandwewalkintothekitchentogether.Everythinglooksnormal—there’sasinglebowlhangingupsidedowninthedryingrack,tracesofWaylon’ssolitarydinner;thevaguescentofcitrusfrommydishsoaplingeringintheair—untilIglanceintothediningroom,myeyeslandingonthetable.Waylon’slaptopandrecordingequipmentaresetupthewaytheywerebefore;justbeneathit,hisbriefcaseleansupagainstthewoodentableleg.
Myeyesdartovertomyclosedguestroomdoor,thenbacktothetable.
Icreepovertoit,easingmyselfintoachairinthedark.ThenIleanoverandgrabhisbriefcase,hoistingitontomylap.Thankfully,itisn’tthekindthatlocks,soIopentheflapandpeerinside.There’sanotebook;afewfoldersfullofpapers.Igrabhiswalletandflipitopen,eyinghisdriver’slicense.
Atleasthewasn’tlyingabouthisname.IhadGoogledhim,ofcourse,buttheproofisrighthere—WaylonSpencer—alongwithhispictureandanAtlantaaddress.
Iflipthewalletclosed,tossitbackintothebriefcase,andgrabahandfuloffoldersnext.Iopenthefirstoneandrealizeit’sthecasefileIgavehimjustlastweek.Everythingseemstobethere—undisturbed,untouched—soImoveontothenextone,flipitopen,andfreeze.
It’sanothercopyofMason’scasefile.Butthisonelooksmuch,mucholder.
Ipullthefileoutandplaceitonthetable,myfingerstracingtheirwaydownthefrayingedges.Therearepenmarksandcoffeestains;notesscribbledinthemarginsandsectionshighlightedwithdried-outmarkers.There’stheMISSINGposterandtheinterviewtranscripts;thesexoffenderregistryandcrimescenephotos.It’sobviousthathe’sporedoverit;readeveryword—notonlyonce,butmultipletimes.Icontinuetoflickthroughthepages,myeyesscanningallthesamethingsWaylonhadseenthatfirstdayinmydiningroom,actingasifheweretakingitallinfortheveryfirsttime.
Suddenly,Irememberthewayhehadtriedtohanditbacktome,likehedidn’tevenneedit.
“Keepit,”Ihadsaid.“Ihavemyowncopy.”
Apparently,sodidhe.
“Whydoeshehavethis?”Iwhisper,feelingthewornpaperbetweenmyfingers.Whywouldhehavehisowncopy?Isupposeit’snotimpossible—journalistscanalwaysgettheirhandsonthesethings—butwhywouldn’thetellme?Whywouldhepretend?
Ithinkbacktothatfirstrecordedconversationagain—howIhadrepeatedmyself,tellinghimthingshealreadyknew,andthewayhehadbeensoconvincing.Askingtheexactsamequestionswithfeignedcuriosity;noddinghishead,eyebrowsbunched,likehedidn’talreadyknowtheanswersIwasabouttorepeat
He’sagoodliar,justlikeme.
Iclosethefolderandstuffitbackintohisbriefcase,placingitonthefloorinthesamespotasbefore.ThenIpickuptheheadphonesandplacethemsnugovermyears.Icanhearmyheartbeatpoundingloudly,mybreathheavyandhoarse.IlookdownatthestereoandpressPlay,startingwhateverrecordinghewasjustlisteningtointheexactspotwhereheleftit.
“Thatseemshardformetofathom.”
Ifeelapunchinmygut—Iknowthatvoice.It’sDetectiveDozier,andalready,IknowwhosevoiceI’mgoingtohearnext.
“Well,it’sthetruth.”
It’smine.
Thisisn’tmyconversationwithWaylon.Heisn’teditinganythingwe’veworkedontogether.Thisisaninterviewrecordingfromthepolicestation.Thisisoneoftheearlyones;oneoftheveryfirstwhentheyhadseparatedBenandme.
WhenIhadbeenquestioned—no,interrogated—alone.
“Allright,let’sgooverthisonemoretime.”Dozier’svoiceleaksthroughthespeakersandintomyears,sendingafamiliarchilldownmyspine.Icanstillpicturehiseyes—thoseeyesthatweresocallousedandhard.Sodisbelieving.Icanstillseethewayhewasleaningagainstthetablebetweenus,drumminghisfingersacrossthewoodinacalm,steadyrhythm.Likehehadallthetimein“Youwokeupatsixo’clock.”
“Yes,that’scorrect.”
“Andyoudidn’tthinktocheckonyoursonuntilaftereight?”
“I…Ithoughthewasstillsleeping.Ididn’twanttodisturbhim.”
“Doeshealwayssleepuntileight?”
“No…no,usuallyhewakesupearlier.”
Iflinchatthesoundofmyownvoice.Icanhearitshaking,alittletrembleinmythroat.
“Whattimedoesheusuallywakeup?”
“Aroundsixthirty.”
“Andyoudidn’tthinkitwasstrangethatyoudidn’thearapeepfromhisroomatall?Almosttwohoursafterhe’snormallyup?”
“Iwasjusthoping,Iguess,thatmaybehewassleepingin.”
“Andwhywereyouhopinghewassleepingin?”
“Um,well,hecanbefussysometimes,soIwashoping…IguessIwantedtotakeadvantageof—”
“I’msorry,didyoujustsayyouwantedto‘takeadvantageof’thefactthatyoursonseemedtonotbewakingup?”
“No,sorry,Ididn’tmeanitlikethat…Ijustmeant—”
Iriptheheadphonesoffandplacethemonthetable,pushingmyheadintomyhands.Goddamnit.Iknewthoseinterviewshadbeenbad,butnow,listeningtothemback,they’reevenworsethanIremembered.Icanstillfeeltheadrenalinecoursingthroughmyveins,thefearmakingmyfingersshakelikeajunkieduringwithdrawal.
DetectiveDozier’seyesdrillingintomine,tryingtopiercemesodeeplythatIwouldfinallycrack.
Itrytopiecetogetherwhatthisallmeans—Waylonhavingacopyofthecasefilealready;listeningtotheserecordingsofDoziergrillingme,hard.Logically,Iknowthiscouldallberesearchforthepodcast.Itseemsunusualthathewouldhideitfromme,butatthesametime,thisishisjob.
Eitherway,it’snotincriminatingenoughtoapproachhimwith.Ineedsomethingmore.
Ilookathislaptopnext,glancingbacktohisclosedbedroomdoor,thendowntothekeyboard,tappingReturn.Itisn’tpasswordprotected,miraculously—maybehewasjustonit,andithasn’tbeenasleeplongenoughtolock—andIwatchasthescreenandkeysilluminateinthedark.MyheartthumpshardinmychestasIstartmovingmyfingersacrossthetrackpad,navigatingfirsttohisdesktop.Therearevariousfoldersorganizedalphabetically:Finance,Interviews,Personal,ResearchIdon’thavetimetoscourhisentirecomputer—hecouldwalkintothehallwayatanysecondandcatchmehere,snoopingthroughhisfiles—soIclickonResearchfirst.
Afterall,itseemslikeWaylonhascertainlydonehisresearch.
Ifindvarioussubfoldersinside,eachonelabeledbyepisodeandseason.MyeyesskimacrosseveryoneuntilIreachthebottomofthelist—totheverylastfolder,simplylabeledX
IclickontheXfolder,myeyesbulgingwhenIseewhat’sinside.Therearepicturesofme—dozensofpictures—invariousstagesoflife.There’smyheadshotfromTheGritandaweddingphotoofBenandme;ourfirstfamilypicture,withMasonbetweenus,andevenafewselfiesofusIhadpostedtoFacebookyearsago.Attheverybottom,myeyeslingeronacandidofBenandmeatabar;itwastakenfromacrosstheroom,thetwoofuscaughtinanintimatemomenttogether,leaninginclose.Unaware.
Myhandhoversovermyopenmouth,shockboltingmeinplace.
Suddenly,IhearacreakfromtheguestroomandIjump,twistingaroundfast.IhalfexpectWaylontobestandingbehindme,watchingmeinthedark,butstill,I’malone.Iholdmybreath,myeyesonhiscloseddoor,imagininghisunconsciousbodyflippingoverontheoldmattressandsinkingindeep,makingtheboxspringgroan.
Finally,afterafewseconds,itfeelssafeenoughturnbackaround.
IclickoutoftheResearchfolder,readytoshutthelaptopandleaveitjustasitwas,untilIdecidetocheckonemorething.IlaunchabrowserwindowandnavigatetohisSearchHistorynext,knowingIonlyhaveafewmoreminutes,andquicklyskimdownthelistofhismostrecentlyviewedwebsites.Mostofthemareinnocent—email,news—untilIcomeacrossthesameTrueCrimeConarticleIhadbeenreadinglastweek.
Isupposeitisn’tunbelievablethatWaylonwouldbereadingit—heisworkingonmycase,afterall,andhewasthere—butnow,Ithinkaboutthatcommentagain.
He’sinabetterplace.
Itdisappearedjustafterourfirstmeetingtogether:beforeourdinneratFramboise,itwasthere,butwhenIgothome,itwasn’t.Ifilethethoughtawayandkeepskimming,gettingreadytocallitquits,whenallofasudden,Icanfeeltheairexitmylungs.
Thisisit.ThisisthemoreIwaslookingfor.
It’sanarticlefromTheBeaufortNews,myhometownnewspaper.Waylonwasreadingitrecently,justyesterday,andmyhandsshakeasIclickonthelinkandwatchasitloads.Thearticleisold,scannedandarchivedfrom1999,andIfeelaprickleoftearsastheheadlineappears.
DAUGHTEROFCONGRESSMANHENRYRHETTTRAGICALLYDROWNSINMARSH
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
THEN
Iheartheslamofadoorandleapfrommybed,rundownthehall,andleanoverthestaircase.Icanseethemthroughthefrontdoorwindow:DadandChiefMontgomery,huddledcloseontheporch,talking.ThenIrunbackupthestairs,twoatatime,andunlatchthewindowatthefrontofthehouse,pushingitopenslowly.
“Iappreciateyoudoingthis,Henry.Iknowitwasn’teasy.”
Awarmblastofearlyafternoonairhitsmealongwiththechief’sslipperyvoice,travelingthroughthehalllikeoilonwater.Icrouchdownlowandlisten.
“Yeah,sure,noproblem,”Dadsays,exhaling.Ican’tseehisface,butIimaginehisthumbandforefingerrubbingthebridgeofhisnoise,thewayhedoeswhenhe’sstressedoutordeepinthought.“Iknowyou’rejustdoingyourjob.”
“I’llwriteuptheofficialreportlatertoday,”hesays.“Accidentaldrowning.”
“Thankyou.”
“AndHenry…”Thechiefstops,hesitates,likehe’snotsureifheshouldcontinue.Likehe’soversteppingsomekindofboundary,blurringthelinesbetweenpersonalandprofessional.Finally,heexhales,decidestopushforward.“I’msosorryaboutallofthis.Yourfamily…you’regoodpeople.Allofyou.You’vebeenthroughhell.”
Ihearmydadsniffasalittlewetchokeeruptsfromhisthroat.Thesoundmakesmeuncomfortable.Idon’tthinkI’veeverheardmydadcrybefore;he’sneverevencomeclose.
“Thankyou,”hesaysagain,clearinghisthroat.
“It’snotyourfault,”thechiefcontinues.“Overfourhundredkidsundertheageofsixdrowninpoolseveryyear,mostlyinJune,July,andAugust.It’shot,Henry.Hotter’nhell.”
Mydadisquiet,butIcanpicturehimnoddingalong,dabbingathiseyeswiththehandkerchiefhekeepsstuffedinhisbackpocket.
“Yourair-conditioningisout.Sheprobablyjustthoughtshe’dtakeadip,cooloff.Outgoingtidecouldhavesweptherupquick.”
“Yeah,”mydadsays.“Yeah,Iknow.”
Islidethewindowshutandwalkslowlybacktomybedroom,feelingadazesettleovermeasIprocesswhatIjustheard.Itmakessense,theirstory.Itishot,Margaretwashot,complainingaboutitconstantly.Irememberherinthestudio,thesweatdrippingfromherneckandhercheeksafieryred.Irememberherinthatbath,icewaterpricklingherskin.Shehadaskedtosleepoutside,lookedlonginglyoutthatwindow,achedforthewindwhippingoffthewatertobringhersomesenseofcomfort,ofrelief—butstill,Iknowit’salie.IknowDadislying,becauseMargaretneverwouldhavewanderedouttherealone:decidingtotaketothemarsh,submergeherselfinthewateruntilshewastoodeeptoturnback.Shewouldhaveneverdonethatonherown.
Butshewouldhavedoneitwithme.
Irememberhercomingintomybedroomthatnight:climbingintomyarms,pushingherselfclose,evenwhenshewasafraid.Margaretfollowedmeconstantly;itdidn’tmatterwhenorwhere.Shewasaquietlittlebodytrailingmearoundlikeashadow—andshadowsdon’tmoveontheirown.
Iliftmyhandtomyneck,touchtheareabehindmyearthatIhadscrubbedclean.Itstings.Theskinfeelsredandrawlikecarpetburn,andIclosemyeyes,tryingtothink.Tryingtotalktoher,summonher,whereversheis.Ineedhertotellmewhathappened,whatIshoulddo,thewaywedidbefore:pinchingoureyesshut,tryingtorecreatethatfeelingofpricklingskinonyourneck.Ofknowingyou’renotalone.
Eventhoughit’sstillsweltering,Ifeelatrailofgoosebumpseruptdownmyspine.
WhenIwokeupthismorning,therewaswateronthecarpet,thebathroomfloor.DamptowelsgrowingmustyinaheapandacleannightgownreplacingtheoneIhadfallenasleepin.Freshmudcakedtomyskin.
Ithinkofmymother,thewayshehadlookedatmeinthekitchen:angerandsadness,hershouldersstiffandhermouthathincutacrossherface.Thewayshehadstoodup,brushedpastme,andslammedthedoorbehindher.Sheknew,andmyfatherdid,too.Maybetheyhadwanderedoutthere,unabletosleepafterMargarettoldthemaboutthefootprints,andfoundusoutsidetogetherinthedark,ourwhitenightgownsglowinginthemoonlight.Me,standingattheedgeofthemarsh,whileMargaretfloatedgentlybesideme,facedown,herhairsplayedacrossthewaterlikeablotofink,expandingslowly.
Ipicturethemrunningacrossthegrass,yellinghername.Pullingherfromthewater,herwet,limpbodynolongertoohotbut,suddenly,toocold.Mudclingingtoherskin,herhair.Thatterrible,awfulsmell.
Iimaginemymothercarryingherinside,layingherdelicatelyonthekitchentile.Shakinghershoulders,begginghertowakeup—ormaybejustpretendingthatshewasstillasleep.Maybeshecouldn’thandlethosewide,unblinkingeyessoshehadsimplypulledherlidsshutwithherfingersandprayedforthemtoclickopenontheirown,justlike
Andthenthere’smyfather,leadingmeinside,justlikethatnightofthefire:myhandinhis,entirelyunconscious,ashestrippedoffmyclothes,pattedmedry.Ledmebacktobedwithunseeingeyes.
Icanpictureit,Ican:Margaret,wakingupnexttomeasIflungmyselffromthesheets,tossingmylegsoverthemattressinthedark.Followingmedownthehall,downthestairs,intothebackyard.Workingupthecouragetoreachout,grabmyshoulder,asIapproachedtheedgeofthemarsh.
“Didyoutrytowakeme?”Ihadasked.
“Momsaidnotto.It’sdangerous.”
“It’snotdangerous.That’sanoldwives’tale.”
Shelistened.Margaretalwayslistenedtome.ToeverythingIsaid.
“Iwon’thurtyou,”Ihadtoldher.Andshenoddedherhead,believing.Trusting.
ItwasapromiseIcouldn’tkeep.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE
NOW
IcanbarelybreatheasIsitinthesilence,Waylon’slaptopglowinginthedarklikethatspringtidemoon.Icontinuetostareattheheadline,thememoriespummelingovermelikewaterfromabrokendam,untilIhearalowgrowlfromsomewhereacrossthehouse.
Islapthelaptopshutandtwistaround,reliefflowingthroughmewhenIrealizeit’sjustRoscoepawingatthebackdoor.
“OhGod,”Iwhisper,myheadfeelingairyandlight.“I’msorry,buddy.”
Istandupandwalkbackintothekitchen,guiltwashingovermeasIrealizehehasn’tbeenoutsideallday.ThenIopenthebackdoorandlethimout,decidingtostepintothebackyardwithhim.Ineedsomeair.
Islidethedoorshutbehindusandtakeadeepbreath,tryingtosteadytheshakinginmyhands.It’smuggyouttonight,astiflingdampintheairthathintsatimpendingrain.Roscoesniffsaround,hissensesinoverdriveafteranentiredaystuckindoors,andIguessmineare,too,becauseeverythingseemstobesomehowintensifiedtonight,likeI’mlookingattheworldthroughamicroscope.Icanheartheunifiedcroakofthetoadsinthemarshafewblockseast;thecicadas,nature’swhitenoise,suddenlydeafeninginmyears.
Ipacearoundabit,myeyesadjustingtothedark,andthink.
WaylonislookingintoMason’scase,thatmuchisthetruth,butitseemslikehe’sbeenlookingintoitforfarlongerthanIthought—andmorethanthat,itseemslikehe’slookingintome.Thecasefileandrecordingsareonething,butthepicturesandarticleseemtobesomethingelseentirely.Itseemsmorepersonal,moretargeted.
AllIknowisIcan’ttrusthimanymore.Ican’ttrusthimtohelp.
Ineedtostartfindingsomeanswersonmyownnow,withouthim,andsuddenly,mynecksnapsup.Ihaveanidea.
IwalkovertoMason’swindowandmovealittletotheright,totheexactspotthatIhadseenpeekingoutbetweenthetreesasIsatinthatrockingchairjustfourdaysago.IrealizenowthatifPaulHayescanseeintomybackyardfromhisporch,thenthatmeans,standingintherightspot,Ishouldbeabletoseehisporchfromhere,too.Ilookacrossmybackyard,pastthefence,throughthegapinthefoliage,andsquint.It’sdarkoutside,butIhavethelightfromthemoon,thestarsglowingbrightagainstacloudlesssky.There’sastreetlightnearhishouse,theonethatshinesalmostdirectlyontohisporch,andthat’swhenIseeit:asubtlealterationintheairliketheshiftingofashadoworthegentleswayofarockingchair.
He’sthere.
Movingquickly,IletRoscoeinsideandshuthiminmybedroom,grabbingmycellphoneandleavingagainthroughthefrontdoor.ThenIwalkaroundtheblock,makingmywaytoward1742CattyLane
Iapproachthehouse,myheartbeatinghardinmychest,andthinkaboutDr.Harris’swords.
Hallucinations,delusions.
IthinkaboutwhatDetectiveDoziertoldmejustthismorning:thatPaulHayeslivesalone.IthinkaboutthatcommentIhadseen—thatIthoughtIhadseen—andhow,suddenly,itwasnolongerthere.Butwasiteventheretobeginwith?Honestly,I’mnotsureanymore.I’mnotsureaboutanythingeversinceIsawmyselfonthatlaptopscreen,standingoverMason’scribinthedark.Idon’tknowwhatI’lldoifIgettoPaul’shouseandfindthattheporchisempty;ifthatrockingchairisjustmovingonitsown,beingpushedbythephantomlegsofthebreeze.Ican’treallystandtothinkaboutit.ButthecloserIget,themoreconfidentIfeel:He’sthere.Icanseehimsoclearly,staringstraightintothevoid.Thatsameweatheredface,old,likeleatherleftoutinthesun;bulgingeyeslikecloudymarbles.
Thisman,whoeverheis,feelslikemybestshotrightnow.Myonlyshot.
IslowdownonceIreachtheporch,castingDozier’swarningtostayawayintotherecessesofmymind.ThenIturntofacehim,clearingmythroat.
“Hi,”Ibegin,suddenlyunsureofwhattosaynext.“WemetonWednesdaynight,whenIwaswalkingmydog.Doyouremember?”
Themancontinuestostare,stillinthatsamebathrobe,hishandsclenchingthearmrests.Theyaresoboney,sofrail.I’mabouttoopenmymouthagain,prodhimsomemore,whenslowly,hisgazeturnstowardmine.
“Oh,yes,”hesays,hisvoicesoftandwet.“Iremember.”
Iexhale,smilingweakly.Iknewthismanwasreal.Iknewhewas.Suddenly,Ifeelridiculousforevendoubtingit.
“Ihopeyoudon’tmind.Iknowit’slate,butIjustwantedtoaskyouafewquestions.ItriedstoppingbyduringthedayonFriday,but—”
“Wedidn’tmeetonWednesday,”hesays.Hisvoiceissofragile,soquiet,Ihavetotakeafewstepsforward,strainingtohear.“Youseemtobetheonewhodoesn’tremember.Ormaybeyou’djustlikemetoforget.”
Itakeanotherstepforward,confusionsettlingoverme.
“I’msorry…havewemet?”Iask.“Ican’tseemtoplaceyou—”
Themancontinuestorock,hiseyesbackonthestreetagain.Icatchaquicktwitchinhislips,andIwonderifmaybehe’ssenile.
“Lotsoftimes,”hesays,andalthoughhisvoiceissoft,itseemsentirelylucid.Hedoesn’tseemconfused.“You’reIsabelleDrake.”
Theshockofhearingmynameonhislips,myfullname,causesmetostumbleabit,asifthewordsthemselveshadreachedoutandshovedmyshouldersback.ItisentirelypossiblethatheknowswhoIam—afterall,thewholetownknowswhoIam—butthisseemstobemorethanthat.
ThewayhesaysitfeelslikeIshouldknowwhoheis,too.
“Whenhavewemet?”Iasknow,eyinghimcarefully.“Ireallydon’tthinkwehave.”
“Coupleyearsago,”hesays.“Youusedtowalkbyatnight.”
IcanfeelmyeyeswidenasItrytomakesenseofwhathe’ssaying.IneverusedtotakeRoscoeforwalksatnight;thatjuststartedrecently,afterMasonwastaken.AfterBenmovedout.AfterIstoppedsleeping.
“I’msorry,Ithinkyou’remistaken—”
“No,I’mnot.”Heshakeshisheadbeforelettingoutalow,wetcough.“Youliverightthere.”Henodshisheadinthedirectionofmyhouse,thenlooksbackatme.“Imaybeold,girl,butI’mnotcrazy.”
IthinkofwhatDr.Harristoldmeearlier:howsleepwalkerscanhaveentireconversations,sometimes,withoutevenrealizing.Howtheirmovementscanseemsolifelike,solucid.
“Keepyourdoorslockedsoyoudon’twanderoutside.”
IthadhappenedwithMargaretbefore:sittingonthefloortogether,playingwithdolls.HernotevenrealizingIwassleeping.
“Whatdidwetalkabout?”
“Notmuch,”hesays.“Youintroducedyourselfthefirsttime,thenafterthat,wejustnoddedtoeachother,exchangedwaves.”
“Thatcan’tberight—”
“That’swhyIwassurprisedtoseeyoutheothernight,”hecontinues.“It’sbeenawhile.Didn’tthinkyou’dbecomingback—notaftereverythingthat’shappened,anyway.”
Ithinkbacktothewayhehadlookedatmebefore;hiseyesblank,staring.Sohehadseenmeafterall.HehadjustbeenconfusedwhenIintroducedmyself,actingasifwewerestrangers.Asifwehadnevermetbefore.
“Andwhendidthisstop?”Iask.“Mewalkingby?Whenwasthelasttime?”
“Ithinkyouknowtheanswertothat,”hesays,thatchaircreakinglouder.
“Let’spretendIdon’t.”
“It’sbeenayear,”hesays,noddingtohimself.“Almosttotheday,infact.”
“Ayear,”Irepeat.“Andyou’resureaboutthat?”
“Oh,I’msure.Marchoflastyear.”
“Andwhyareyousosure?”Iask,thegroundbeneathmestartingtosway.
Themanturnstolookatme,finally,hiscataractedeyesliketwocrystalballsandanamusedlookonhisface,likewe’rerehashingsomekindofinsidejokethatIdon’tunderstand.Isuddenlyhavethedistinctfeelingthatwhateverthisdanceisbetweenusissomethingwe’vedonebefore.Somethingheverymuchenjoys.
“Because,”hesaysatlast,atwitchofasmileappearingonhislips,“youhadyourkidwithyouthattime.”
CHAPTERFORTY
Ipushmyselfbackintomybedroomandslamthedoorwithtoomuchforce.Roscoeperksup,confused,andIknowI’mbeingloudenoughtowakeupWaylon,butrightnow,Idon’tcare.
Nothingmattersanymore.Nothingmattersbutthis.
Theimagesareswirlingaroundmelikebathwaterslowlycirclingitswaydownthedrain:thosedirtyfootprintsonthecarpetandthefingermarksbeneathmyear;theopenwindowandthesmellofthemarshandthatstuffeddinosaurcoveredinmud.It’sgettingharderandhardertoseparatefactfromthefiction;dreamfromreality.Thenfromnow
MargaretfromMason.
Ihearaknockatmydoor,cautiousandslow,andturntotheside.Waylonisinthehallway.
“Isabelle?”hecalls.“Iseverythingokay?IthoughtIheardthedoor—”
Icursebeneathmybreathandconsiderstayingquiet,lettinghimjustwaitforawhilebeforebeingforcedtowalkaway.Icanfeelhimontheothersideofthewall,hesitant.Fivesecondsgoby,thenten,butIcanstillseehisshadowbeneaththedoor,unmoving.Heknocksagain.
“Isabelle,”hesays,firmernow.“Iknowyou’reawake.”
Roscoejumpsoffthebed,walksovertothedoorandstartstoscratch.Isigh,leanmyheadback,andtakeafewstepsforward,steelingmyselfbeforeIthrustitopen.
“Hi,”Isay.“Sorry.Didn’tmeantodisturbyou.”
“Whywereyououtside?”Helooksdisheveled,hishairanestoftanglesandhiseyescoatedwithsleep.There’sastrangeintimacytoseeingpeopleteeteringontheedgeofconsciousnesslikethis,knowingthatthey’revulnerable.Likethefirsttimeanewpartnerunwittinglyfallsasleepinyourbedandyoulienexttotheminthedark,watchingthegentleriseandfalloftheirchest,thebareskinoftheirneck.Knowingthat,inthosepreciousmoments,theyarecompletelydefenseless.Completelyexposed.“It’s”—heglancesaround,lookingforaclock,butunabletofindone—“Idon’tknow,twointhemorning?”
“Ijusthadtogetsomeair,”Isay.“I’vebeenshutinhereallday.”
Icantellhedoesn’tbelieveme,butit’sthebestI’vegot.
“Iseverythingokay?”heasks.“Ifeellikethere’ssomethingyou’renottellingme.You’re…sweating.”
Iliftmyhandtomyforehead,feelingthecoldslickofmyskin.IhadpracticallyrunhomefromPaul’shouse,tooafraidtoturnbackaround.Toseethegazeofthatmanonmyback;tofacetheaccusationsIcouldseetwirlinginhiseyes.
“I’mfine,”Isay.“It’sjustthisbug.”
“Doyouneedmetotakeyoutothedoctor?Youreallyaren’tlookinggood…nooffense.”
Iglancetotheside,tothemirrorhangingabovemydresser,andalmostrecoilatmyreflection.He’sright.Myskinissallowandpale,likeIjustingestedsomethingrotten;myeyesaresunkenin,exposingthegentleslopeofmyskull.HisexpressionismakingmerememberthewayDr.Harrishadlookedatmeearliertoday—or,Isupposethatwasyesterday;it’sallstartingtoblurtogethernow—thatsamesenseofconcern
“Youknowwhat’smoredangerousthansleepwalking?Sleepdeprivation.”
“I’mfine,”Irepeat.“Really.”
“Okay.”Helooksatme,unconvinced,andIthinkIseeaflickerofsadnessappearonhisfeaturesbeforeitdisappearsjustasfast.Ormaybeit’spity.Thethoughtofhoweasyitwasforhimtosnakehiswayintomylifelikethis;howheonlyneededtosaytherightthingsattherighttimesinorderformyguardtodropcompletely.
Hetakesastepclosertome,andIflinch.
“Isabelle…youknowyoucantrustme,right?Youcantellmeifthere’ssomethingelsegoingon?”
Idon’tknowhowtorespondtothat.Idon’tknowifIcantrusthimafterwhatIdiscovered—butIdon’tknowifIcantrustmyself,either.Soinstead,Ilookatmyfeet,myeyesdrillingintothecarpet.IcanhearthetickoftheclockinthelivingroomandRoscoe’stongueworkingitswayoverhisfurashelaysonmybed,amethodicallicking.Thegentlebuzzoftheoverheadlight,likeaswarmoffliescirclingsomethingdead.
“WhatdidDoziertellyou?”Iaskatlast,myvoiceawhisper.
“What?”
“Atthestation.”Ilookup,tryingtoreadhisexpression.Tryingtostayfirmandfocusedwhen,really,thefearcoursingthroughmemakesmefeellikeImightfaint.“Today.Yousaidyoutalkedtohim.”
“Oh,”hesays,rubbingthebackofhisneck.“Yeah.Let’snotgetintothatrightnow,okay?”
“Butyousaid—”
“Notnow,”herepeats.“Itcanwait.Youneedtogetsomesleep.”
Iexhale,nod,knowingthatthere’snopointintryingtoconvincehim.Itistwointhemorning,afterall—mostpeoplewouldbeasleepatthishour.
Mostpeople.
“Okay,”Isay,myeyesstingingatthethoughtofwaitinguntilmorning—laterinthemorning,Imean—tofinallyfindsomeanswers.“Okay,soundsgood.I’llsleep.”
Waylonsmiles,oblivioustothefactthatonceheleaves,oncethedoorshutsbehindhim,nothingwillchange.
I’llstillbehere,awake,onlywithouthim,I’llbealone.
“Well,goodnight,”hesays,turningaroundandflippingoffthelight.
IshutthedoorquicklyandlistenasWaylonretreatsintohisownroom—thenIhearthegentleclickofthelockandrealize:Idon’tthinkI’veeverheardhimlockthedoorbefore.Iwonderifit’sbecauseofme.Ifit’sbecausehe’safraidofme—afraidofbeingalonewithmeinthedark—thewaymyownmotherwas.
Imakemywaybacktobedandcrawlbeneaththecovers,glancingatmylaptopandpullingittowardme.Itapatthekeyboarduntilitcomesbacktolife,andthereIam,justasIhadleftit:there’sme,standinginMason’snursery,thevideoonPause.Istareatthefrozenimageonthescreen,mybodymovingthroughsomekindofmindlessrhythm,likeawind-updollwalkingonitsown,andIwonder:IfIwasgoingintoMason’snurserylikethis,nightafternight,Isupposeit’spossibleIwasgoingoutside,too.
Itrytoimaginemyselfwalkingdownthehall,passinghisnursery,andopeningthefrontdoorinstead,roamingthestreetsofmyneighborhood,likesomekindofrestlessspiritwalkingafamiliar,comfortingpath.Ithinkofthosefootprintsonmycarpetagain;thefactthatIhaddonethatexactthingbefore—butevenifthat’sthecase,there’snowayIwouldhavebroughtMasonwithme.I’veseenmyselfenoughtimesonthesevideostoknow:I’venevertouchedhim.I’veneverevengottencloserthanmid-room.Thatmanmustbeconfused.Hemustbelyingtome,playingwithme,tryingtomakemebelievesomethingthatjustisn’ttrue.
IhitPlayagain,resumingthevideo,watchingasmybodycontinuestoswaylikelaundryonaclothinglinebeingpushedbythewind.IobservethewayMasonkickshislittlefeetinhissleep,theentirescreenglowinginastrange,night-visiongray,makingmelooklikeI’mananimalinthedark,wanderingintosomekindoftrap.Finally,Iseemylegsmove:astep,andthenanother.Iwaitformyselftoturnaround,towalkbacktowardthedoor,butinsteadofwalkingoutthewayIcame,Istarttowalkcloser.ClosertoMason.
Ileanforward,thelightfromthelaptopmakingmyeyesburn.Iwatchasmybodyapproacheshiscribandstands,silently,abovehim,peeringdown—thenasIleanforward,myarmsoutstretched.
No,Ithink,unabletolookaway,unabletomove,asmyunconsciousbodypicksupmyson,hislittlefeetkickingintheairasIhoisthimup,bringhimclose.Holdhimtightagainstmychest.
Islapmylaptopshut,tooafraidtoseewhatcomesnext.
CHAPTERFORTY-ONE
AmonthafterAllison’smemorial,IleftmyjobatTheGrit
Benfoundaway,justlikehepromised,anditinvolvedmegoingfreelance.Iwouldcontinuewritingforthemonaproject-by-projectbasis,thenwhenwewentpublicwithourrelationship,itwouldn’tlookasbad.Itwouldn’tlooklikeabossandhisemployee;itwouldn’thavestartedwhenAllisonwasstillalive.
Wehadconnectedafterward,ofcourse.AfterAllisonwasdead.AfterIwasalreadygone.
Ourweddingwassmall,intimate.Itdidn’tfeelrighttoBentohaveagrandreception,andItendedtoagree.Itwashissecondmarriage,afterall,lessthanayearafterAllison’sdeath.Andbesides,Ididn’thavemanypeopleIwantedtoinvite.
Tobehonest,Ididn’thaveanyoneatall.
WeexchangedvowsinChippewaSquare,thecobblestonesprovidingamakeshiftaisle,ouraltaranarchwayofsweepingtrees.Iworewhite,asimplesummerdress,andremembergrinningwidelyeverytimearandompasserbywouldwhistleastheycaughtaglimpse.Aftersomanymonthsofsecrecy—oftryingtoignoreeachotherattheoffice;ofbeingoutinpublictogether,butnotreallytogether—itfeltgoodfortheworldtoacknowledgeus.
Toacknowledgeme.
Aftertheceremony,wewenttodinner,justBenandme.Weatepastaanddranktwobottlesofrosé,laughingandbeamingandutterlygiddyatthethoughtofspendingtherestofourlivestogether.Wehadmovedintoourhousejustafewdaysearlier,butthefurniturehadn’tbeendeliveredyet,sowespentourweddingnightinanimprovisedbedmadeofblanketsandthrowpillowslaidoutacrossthelivingroomfloor.Irememberthemismatchedcandlecollectionflickeringfromthemantel,theflowerpetalshehadrippedfrommybouquetandsprinkledacrossthecarpet.Itwaspassionateandromanticandemotionalandreal.
Itwasthehappiestnightofmylife.
Wehadtalkedaboutchildren,ofcourse.Neitherofuswantedthem.Benwastoobusy.Hisprioritywaswork,italwayswouldbe,andheknewthatwouldmakehimabsent:oneofthosefatherswhowasneverreallythere.Iunderstoodthat—appreciatedit,even,havinggrownupwithonemyself—soItoldhimIneversawmyselfasamother,either.Andthatwasthetruth.ItremindedmetoomuchofMargaret:ofwhathadhappenedwhenanotherlifehadbeenleftinmycare.
OfhowbadlyIhadfailedthefirsttime.
Butthensomethinginsidemestartedtochange.Itwasaslowrevelation,barelythere,thattookyearstotakeroot,likeahelicopterseeddriftingawaybeforeplantingitselfinopensoil.Iwasenjoyingfreelancing,forthemostpart,butitwasdifferentfromTheGrit.Ididn’thaveanofficeorcoworkers;Ispentalmostallofmytimealone.Igottotravelabit,hereandthere,butmostlyIwashome,spendingthemajorityofeachdayglancingattheclock,countingdownthehoursuntilBenwouldwalkbackthroughthedoor,andIwouldfinallyhavesomecompany.
Andthen,ofcourse,therewasBen.Thesubtlechangesthattookplaceinhim,too.ThewayhestoppedeyingmeasIslinkedaroundthehouseinmybarelytherebathrobe,hiseyescastdownathiscomputerinstead.Thewayheseemedtogethomelaterandlater,ouronce-freshmarriagesuddenlygrownstale.Before,heseemedsoexcitedbyme.Soalive.Butnowthathehadme,Ifeltmyselfstartingtotarnishinhiseyes,likeapieceoffinejewelryleftalonefortoolong.Itriedtotellmyselfthatthatwasjustmarriage—aninevitable,slowdecaythattookplaceastheyearsstrippedusofourspontaneityandspark—butIdidn’twanttoacceptit.Ididn’twanttoacceptthat,onlyfouryearsin,thingshadalreadystalled.
Ididn’twanttoacceptthataftereverythingwehadgonethroughtogether—afterlosingAllison,andmyjob,andallthoseotherlittlecasualtiesthatfeltliketheywereofferedupinthehopesofsomethingmore—thiswasit.
Irememberthatmorningsovividly;themorningthatseedfinallysproutedintosomethingwildandalive.ItwaslikeaninvasiveweedIcouldnolongercontain,snakingitswaythroughmybrainandtakingovereverything.Ihadbeenthinkingaboutitforawhile,really.Ihadbeenthinkingthatmaybeababywouldn’tbesobad—infact,maybeitwouldbegood.MaybeitwouldnudgeBentostayhomealittlemore;toshifthispriorities.Maybeitwouldhelpbringusbacktogether—andmaybe,maybe,itwouldbemychancetotakecareofsomeoneafterIhadfailedtotakecareofMargaret.
Mychancetomakeupformypast.
Soonemorning,Iwalkedintothebathroomandshutthedoorbehindme,thesilentclickofthelockmakingmyheartbeatrisetomythroat.Icanstillpicturemyselfstandingoverthattoiletandpushingmybirthcontrolpillsthroughtheirfoilcasing,onebyone,andintothewater,liketheyweresomekindofceremonialsacrifice.ThetickleofanticipationinmystomachasIflushed,watchingthemspinincirclesuntiltheydisappearedaltogether.RippingBen’sclothesoffassoonashegothomeandlyinginsilencetogetherafterward,wondering.Waiting.Tryingtosomehowfeelithappeningbeneathmyskin.
AndIfeltguilt,yes.Theshameforlyingandevenalittletwingeofembarrassmentathavingstoopedtosomethingsodeviousandlow—butalsothethrillofhavingsomesemblanceofcontrolovermylifeagain.
Ofmakingadecisionformyselfforonce.
Tobehonest,Ididn’treallythinkitwouldhappen—oratleast,notthatfast.Butitwasonlyamatterofmonthsuntilithitme:awaveofnauseasointensethatmyarmshotouttothesideandgraspedthekitchencounterwithagripsotightitwasstartling.Irememberclosingmyeyes,pursingmylips.Forcingthevomittoglidebackdownmythroatbeforerunningintothebathroomandcollapsingontothefloor.
Irememberreachingslowlyforatest,thestill-fullboxwedgedandripping,whereIhadhiditinadustycornerlikeamousetrap,readytosnapatmyfingers.
“Ben?”Ihadyelled,myeyesboringintothosetwopinklines,unsureiftheywerereal.“Ben,canyoucomeinhere?”
Butthen,Iremembered:Hewasn’tthere.
Monthswentby,andthingscontinuedtochange,onlynotinthewayIhadhoped.IwatchedasmyskinpulledandstretchedanddimpledlikePlay-Doh;asmyanklesswelledupandmybellybuttonpopped.Ismiledasoldcoworkersplacedtheirpalmsonmystomach,feelingthekicksandcommentingonmyglowingskin,butallthewhile,IfeltlikeIwashidingsomething:adirtylittlesecrettheycouldn’tpossiblyunderstand.BecauseIcouldstillrememberthatmomentinthebathroom,theinitialreactionthatflaredupsoquickly,likethatfirstboutofnauseaIpusheddownjustasfast.Irememberedwhatitwasliketositonthattile,testinhand,myeyesdrillingintothosetwopinklinesasthesilenceofmyhouse,mylife,echoedaroundmelikeascreamunderwater—somehowbothstridentandsmotheredattheexactsametime.
Beforethetearsandtheexcitementandthejoykickedin,Ifeltsomethingelsefirst.SomethingIdidn’texpect.
Assuddenasablink,barelythere,Ifeltastabofregret.
CHAPTERFORTY-TWO
There’scoffeeinthekitchen.IheardWaylongetupthismorning,shuffledownthehall,andputonapot.Iheardthesputterofthewater,thescreamingsteam.Theclankofceramicmugsashepulledthemoutofthecabinetandsetthemonthecounter,pouringhimselfacupandwalkingintothelivingroom.Thescenttrailingbehindhimbeforebranchingoffandwaftingdownthehall,undermydoor,lookingforme.
I’vebeensittinginmybedallnight,thatimagefromthelaptopbrandedintomymind:me,grabbingMasonoutofhiscribinthedark.Holdinghimtightagainstmychestashewriggledandwrithed,thatlittlestuffeddinosaurstillclutchedinhisfingers.
I’vebeenthinkingaboutthatoldman’stwitchysmileandcloudyeyesashestaredstraightintomine,daringmetoremember.
Icreepoutofmybedroomslowly,hesitantly,likeadrunkemergingfromslumberafteraboisterous,blearynight.
“Morning,”Waylonsays,tippinghismugatme.“Didyougetsomesleep?”
“Yeah,”Ilie,avoidinghiseyes.“Sorryaboutlastnight.Disturbingyou.”
“Don’tbe.Areyoufeelingbetter?”
Iignorehim,grabbingthepotandpouringmyselfamug,pushingmypalmsintothewarmthsohardithurts.ThenIwalkintothelivingroomandjoinhimonthecouch,pullingmylegsbeneathmelikeatoddler.
“So,canwetalkaboutitnow?”
Waylonlaughs,placinghismugonacoasterasheshakeshisheadslowly.
“Gettingrighttoit,huh?”
“Well,thatiswhyyou’rehere,isn’tit?Tohelpmefindmyson?”
There’saflutterofsomethingbehindhisexpression:thatmillisecondofpreparationthatalwayspresentsitselfjustbeforesomeonesteelsthemselvestolie.It’seasytospot,aslongasyouknowwheretolook:thetensioninthejaw,thehardeningoftheeyes.Itdisappearsjustasquicklyasitcame,butstill.Itwasthere.
“Ofcourseitis,”hesays,leaningbackandpickinguphismugagain,fidgeting.“Ijustthoughtyou’dwantasecondtowakeupfirst.”
“I’mjustcurious,isall.Itseemslikeyou’vehadmoreluckwithDozierinaweekthanIhaveinayear.”
“Sometimesfreshbloodhelps.”
“Iseethat.”
Waylonlooksatme,hisfingerspullingatafrayingthreadonthecouch.
“Hetoldmehe’dbeopentolettingmelistentosomeinterviewrecordings,maybeuseafewfortheshow,”hesaysatlast.“I’vereadthetranscripts,anyway.”
Hetakesasipofhiscoffeeandsmackshislips,clearlysatisfiedwithhisanswer.Andthatmuchistrue,Isuppose—onlyhe’somittingthefactthathealreadyhasthem.
“Whichinterviews?”Iask.Mycupisstilluntouched,steaminginmyhands.
“I’mnotsureyet.Therearedaysoffootagetosiftthrough.I’mgoingtoswingbylater.Pickthemup.”
Inod,rememberingthoseentireafternoonsspentinthepolicestation.Theemptywaterbottlesatmyfeetandmytiredreflectioninthemirroronthewall,feelingtheeyesofallthepeoplebehindit,watching.Rememberingmyvoicefromlastnight,leakingthroughtheheadphoneslikemarshwaterrushingthroughacrackedwindow.Anopenmouth.
“CanIcomewithyou?”Iask.
“I’mnotsurethatwouldbeagoodidea.”
“Whynot?”
Waylonexhales,pushingcoffee-scentedbreathoutthroughhislips.
“Look,”hesaysatlast,crossingonelegovertheother.“Ireallyappreciateeverythingyou’vedonehere…lettingmestayatyourplace,howcooperativeyou’vebeen.It’sbeenaboveandbeyond.”
“But?”
“But,”herepeats,steelinghimself,“Idon’twanttheintegrityofthepodcasttobeatrisk.”
“Theintegrity—”
Waylonholdsuphishands,stoppingmemid-sentence.“Ifanyoneweretofindoutthatwe’vebeenworkingonthistogether,mycredibilitywouldbeshot.There’snowayanyonewouldseeitasobjective.Imean,I’msorrytosaythis,but—”
“ButI’masuspect,”Iinterject.“Andyouneedtotreatmeassuch.”
“Yes,”hesays.“Well,no.I’mjustsayingthatitcan’tappearlikeI’mtakingsides.”
“Ifyouwerereallyconcernedaboutyourintegrity,youneverwouldhaveagreedtostayhereinthefirstplace,”Isay,standingupfromthecouch.“Sowhydon’tyoutellmewhatitisyou’rereallyafter?”
Waylonisquiet,hisfingerstappingawayatthesideofhismug.“I’mnotsurewhatyou’retryingtosay.”
“IknowyouliedtomeaboutseeingDozieryesterday.Iknowbecausehewashere.”
Waylonperksup,hiseyesgrowingwide.
“HemusthavecomebyafterIleft—”
“AndIknowyouliedaboutDoziersayinghedoesn’tknowmyneighbor,too,becausehedoesknowhim.Hetoldmehisname,”Isay,theangerandthebetrayalpushingmeforward.“SostopwithyourbullshitaboutcredibilitybecauseyouandIbothknowthatyouhavenone.Whyareyouhere?”
“I’m…I’mheretohelp,”hesays,thoughit’sstartingtosoundlessconvincing.Likeevenheknowsthatthere’snouselyinganymore.“I’mheretofigureoutwhathappenedtoyourson—”
“Bullshit.Iwentthroughyourstufflastnight.Isaweverythingyou’vebeenhiding.Whyareyouhere?”
He’squiet,hislipspursedtightaswestareateachotherfromacrossthecouchinasilentstandoff.JustasI’mstartingtothinkhe’llnevertalk,hebowshisheadandblowsatunnelofairoutthroughhislips.
“Isabelle,you’veseentheevidence,”hesaysatlast.“You’veseenitall.”
“So?”
“Soyouknowwhattheevidencesays.WhoevertookMason…theycamefrominsidethehouse.”
Ilookathim,blinkafewtimes.Theimplication,ofcourse,isclear.Iknowwhathe’stryingtosay.
“Theevidencedoesn’tlineupwiththeideaofaforcedentry.”
“Buttherewasanopenwindow—”Istart.
“Butnofootprintsonthecarpet,”heinterrupts,finallylookingupatme.“Ifsomeonecameintoyourhousethroughthatwindow,therewouldhavebeendirtonthecarpet.Mud,grass,something.”
“That’sjustonethingthatcouldeasilybeexplained,”Isay.“Hecouldhavetakenhisshoesoff—”
“Whydidn’tRoscoebark?”hecontinues,pressingon.“Hebarkswhenheseesstrangers.Someonewouldhaveheardhim.Youwouldhavewokenup.Whywashequiet?”
“Hewasn’t…hewasn’tinthenursery,”Isay,eventhoughIknowit’sabadanswer.Hewouldhaveheardit,anyway.“Maybehewasasleep.”
“Hewasquietbecausenobodybrokeintoyourhouse,Isabelle.Iknowit,youknowit,thecopsknowit.Therewasnointruder.”
IthinkofDetectiveDozierandthewayhe’salwaysbrushingmeoff;thewayhelooksatmelikeheknowssomethingIdon’t.Thewayheneverseemstogivemethetimeofday.
SoIwasright,then.That’swhathethinks.That’swhattheyallthink.
“Youreallybelievethat?”Iask,tryingtokeepmyvoicelevel.Tryingtokeepmyselffromcrying.“Thiswholetimeyou’vebeenhere,everyconversationwe’vehad…?”
We’rebothdancingaroundit,avoidinghavingtosayitoutright,butfromthelookinhiseyes,heknowswhatI’masking:DoyouthinkIkilledmyson?
“Yeah,”hesaysatlast,hiseyesonmine.“Yeah,Ido.”
Ishouldhaveseenthiscoming.I’mastorytellermyself,afterall,andastorytellernevergoesintoastorywithoutactuallyknowingthestory.Withouthavinganideaofwhatitisyouwanttotell.Youdon’tgoinblind,searchingforanswers.Youhavetheanswers—youranswers,atleast;theanswersyouwant—andyougoinsearchingforproof.
Fromthatveryfirstconversationontheairplane,thishasbeenWaylon’sangle.Ihavebeenhisangle.Ithoughthewasdifferent,Ithoughthecared,soIlethimin,toldhimthings.ThingsI’venevertoldanyone.Butthatwashisgameallalong,wasn’tit?Thatwashisgoal:togetmetorelax,openup,bycookingmedinnerandpouringmewine;bylisteningtomesointentlyandneverpushingtoohard.
Butallalong,hebelievedit.Justlikeeverybodyelse.
IsabelleDrakeisababykiller.
“Getout,”Isay,pointingatthedoor.“Iwantyououtofmyhouse.”
Waylonisquiet,hislipsstillparted,likehewantstofightback.
“Iwantyououtnow.”
Finally,henodsbeforestandingupsilentlyandwalkingintotheguestroom.Ihoverbythecouch,armscrossedtightagainstmychestandthestingoftearsinmyeyesasIwatchhimpackhisthings.Ithurts:thebetrayal,thelies.ThefactthatIhadfinallyallowedmyselftofeellistenedto,tofeelheard.TofeellikeI’mnotinthisalone.
Butthat’snotwhathurtsthemost.
It’sthefactthat,evenaftergettingtoknowme,Waylonstillbelievesthere’sameannessinme,burieddeep.Thatthere’ssomethingnocturnalthatslithersoutinthedark;somethingwithabloodlustthatneedstobequenched.HereallybelievesthatIwalkedintoMason’snurserythatnightanddidsomethingtohim,somethingterrible.Somethingsobadmyownconsciousmindhasblockeditout,refusingtoremember,thesamewayIdidsomethingtoMargaret.
Butstill,that’snottheworstofit.
Theworstofitisthatnow,withastartlingcertainty,Ibelieveit,too.
CHAPTERFORTY-THREE
I’mdowntownnearTheGrit’soffice,theoaktreesliningalongstreetofhistoricbrickcondos.They’reexpensive,Icantell.Thetypesofhousespeoplebuynotforthehouseitselfbutfortheconnotationofit.Thetypesofhousesthatexudemoneyandstatus—sortoflikeTheGrititself,Iguess.Soinaway,itmakessensethatBenhaschosentolivehere.Itfitstheimage.
Ireachhisstoopandclimbthesteps,glancingatmywatch.Iwashopingtocatchhimbeforework,onhiswayout,butImighthavemissedhim.Ifhe’snothere,I’lljusthavetowait.ThenItakeadeepbreathandringthebell,hearingthebuzzfrominside,myhandspunchedintomypockets.Afterafewminutesofsilence,Igetreadytoturnaround,walkdownthesteps,andtryagainlater,whensuddenly,thedoorfliesopen.
Benislaughing,likehe’smid-conversation,andIwatchashissmilefadesashetakesmein.
“Isabelle,”hesays.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Doyouhaveasecond?Iwashopingwecouldtalk.”
“Uh,no,”hesays,glancingoverhisshoulder.“No,notreally.I’mrunninglateforwork.”
“It’simportant—”
“Ben?”Ihearavoicefromsomewhereinside.It’sawoman’svoice,youngandflirty,andIbowmyhead,tryingtohidemyreddeningcheeks.It’sher.“Ben,areyououtthere?Whoisit?”
“Nobody,”hecallsoverhisshoulder.“Justasecond.”
Westandinsilence,bothofustooembarrassedtolooktheotherintheeye.Nobody.I’vewalkedinonsomething,Icantell.ATuesdaymorningspenttogether,andIwonderifthisisjustacoincidence—ifmaybetheydranktoomuchlastnightandstumbledbackheretogether,decidingtocrashathisplaceinsteadofcallingacar—orifsheliveshere,too.Ifhejustbouncedthatquicklyfrommetoher,thesamewayhedidfromAllisontome.
Ipokemyheadtotheside,tryingtocatchaglimpseintohishome.
“So,whatisit,Isabelle?”hesays,leaningonthedoorframe,tryingtoobscuremyview.“WhatbringsyouherethisearlyonaTuesdaymorning?”
“Ijusthadsomequestions,”Isay.“About,youknow,thatnight…”
“Jesus,”hesays,loweringhishead.He’spinchingtheskinbetweenhiseyes,hard,likeI’mamigrainehe’stryingtofightoff.“Areyoukiddingme?”
“It’simportant—”
“Isabelle,youneedtoletthisgo.”
“Areyousayingthatbecausethat’swhat’sbestforme?”Iask.“OrbecauseyouthinkIdon’twanttoknowthetruth?”
Benstaresatme,hisheadcockedtotheside.“Whatdoesthatmean?”
Ithinkaboutalltheothertimeshe’slookedatmelikethis—onDr.Harris’scouch,hishandonmyknee;inourlivingroomatduskasIstoodplantedbythewindow,myeyesglassedover—searchingmyexpressionforsomethinglong-sincelost:aflickerofrecognition,maybe.Aglimpseofknowledge.Amemorylodgedsomewheredeepinmysubconscious,tryingtoclawitswayout.
“Ithinkyouknowwhatitmeans,”Isay.“Look,Ben,ifyou’retryingtoprotectmeorsomething—”
Istop,mymindbackinBeaufortagain.Onmyfatherandthewayhehadlookedatme,too.Thewayhehadcoveredforme,liedforme,becausethetruth,heknew,wouldkillme.Maybethat’swhyBenhasbeensoadamantabouttryingtogetmetomoveon.Maybethat’swhyhe’sbeentryingtoconvincemetostopsearching,stophoping.
Becauseheknowsit’spointless.Heknowsthetruth.
“Ifyouknowsomethingaboutwhathappenedandyou’rejustafraidtosayit…please,”Isay,pleadingnow.“Ihavetoknow.Ican’twonderlikethisforever.Ican’t—”
Beforehecanrespond,thedooropenswide,andawomanappearsbehindhim.She’swearingoneofhisworkshirts—awhitebutton-up,thecollarhalfpopped—herdarkhairtiedintoabunonthetopofherhead.She’ssmilingpolitely,barefacedandbeautiful,assheputsherhandonhisshoulderandpushesherselfintoview.
“Hi,Isabelle,”shesays.“It’sgoodtoseeyou.”
IstareatthewomaninthedoorframeandregisterBen’sshoulderstightenathertouch.Iwonderifheseesit,too.Howalikeweare.TheCupid’sbowofourlips;theangledcheekbones,thesameshadeofhair.Iwonderifheseesit,ifhe’sembarrassed,orifit’sentirelysubconscious.Ifhedoesn’tevenrealizethatIfeellikeI’mstaringstraightatus,halfadecadeago,whenIwastheonewrappedinhisclothes,makinghimbreakfast.Makinghimlaugh.
“Isabelle,thisisValerie,”hesaysatlast.“ThoughI’veheardyoutwohavealreadybeenacquainted.”
“Valerie,”Irepeat,takinginherdarkeyesandopensmile.Atfirst,Idon’tknowwhathe’stalkingabout—Idon’tknowwhathemeansbyacquainted—butthenInoticeherdimples,thosetwoidenticalchasmsinhercheekshuggingherlipslikeapairofparentheses.“Fromthechurch.”
IthinkbacktothecathedralonthenightofMason’svigil:thewanderersandworshipers,andthewayIhadclosedmyeyesanddriftedawayforawhile.Openingthembackupagainandfindingeveryonegonebeforewalkingintothebackroom.Thewaythelightfrominsidehadspilledoutontothesidewalklikethemoononwater,andthebargaincoffeebrewinginthecornermakingmyeyesfeeltight.Thosecheapmetalchairsarrangedinasadcircleonthefloorandthewomanwhohadgreetedme.Invitedmetostay.
“Ididn’treallygetthechancetointroducemyselfbefore,”shesaystomenow,thrustingherhandoutinmydirection.“Properly,Imean.”
Ilookdownatit,rememberingthemanwhohadinterruptedusthen,shufflinginsidejustasherlipshadstartedtopart.Ican’tbringmyselftotakeit.
“Valerie,hon,we’lljustbeasecond,”Bensaysafteraprolongedsilence.Icantellthatshewantstostay—shewantstomakethisrightbetweenus,whateverthisis—butinstead,hegivesherakissontheheadandstepsontothestoop,closingthedoorbehindhimandleavingherinside.
“So,”Isayatlast,crossingmyarmsafterabeatofuncomfortablequiet.“Thetherapist.”
“Isabelle,comeon.”Hesighs.“Notnow.”
“Ihavetoadmit,Ididn’texpectthisclichéfromyou,”Icontinue,aglimpseofangerstartingtosurgeinmychest.Icantasteitagain—blood,pennies,themetallictangofrageforcingitselfupmythroat.“Butthenagain,whoamItotalk?Ididmarrymyboss.”
“That’senough,”hesays.“Itriedtogetyoutogowithme.Itried.”
Ithinkbacktothosechairsagain,tryingtoimagineBensittinginoneofthem.Thevulnerabilityofit.Itseemssoout-of-placeforhim,sowrong,andIfeelasuddenpangofguiltatthethoughtofhimenteringthatroomforthefirsttimealone.Ipicturethenervousfidgetinhisfingersashetriedtofindthewords;hisvoice,usuallysocommanding,startingtocrack.
Therealizationlodgesitselfinmychestlikeaknifewedgingintomyribcage,coldandsharp:Ishouldhavebeentherewithhim.
“Sowewerestilltogether,”Isayinstead,imagininghimleavingthehouseeveryMondaynightandspendingitwithher,asIstayedseatedatthediningroomtable,myrabideyesconsumingallthosepicturesonthewall.Ihadpracticallyforcedthemtogether,drivinghimintothearmsofsomeonewhocouldactuallyhelp.
“Weweren’tstilltogetherandyouknowit,”hesays.“Wehadn’tbeentogetherforalongtime.Notreally.”
“That’snewstome,”Isay.“Iguessit’skindoflikehowyouandAllisonweren’ttogether,either.Notreally.”
Benstaresatme,andIcantellthattookhimbysurprise.I’veneverbroughtupAllisonlikethisbefore.I’veneverinsinuatedthatwhathedidtoher—whatwedidtoher,together,behindherback—waswrongonsomanylevels.
“So,what,didsheholdyouandletyoucryandmakeyoufeelbetterwhenIcouldn’t?”Iask.Benisstillsilent,staringatme,butIcan’tstop.Iwanttohurthim,eventhoughitisn’tfair.Eventhoughnoneofthiswouldhavehappened—noneofit—ifitweren’tforme.
“Youshouldknowthatwedidn’tgettogetheruntilrecently,”hesaysquietly.He’smatchingmyangerwithpity,whichmakesitevenworse.“Thatisthetruth.NotuntilafterIstoppedgoing.AfterImovedout.”
“Howkindofhertowait.”
“Ireachedouttoher,”Bensays.“Okay?Shedidn’tinitiateanything.Shedidn’tdoanythingwrong.”
We’rebothquiet,andIcanfeelmyheartthumpinghardagainsthisring,stilldanglingagainstmychest.Ihavethesuddenurgetoripitoffandthrowitathim,butadmittingthatI’vebeenholdingontoitlikethisissomethingIstillcan’tbringmyselftodo.
“WouldyouhavemovedoutifMasonwasn’ttaken?”Iaskinstead.IneedtogetitoutbeforeIhavethechancetoreelthewordsbackin;beforeIcanchangemymindandcrawlbackintotheshadows,choosingignoranceoveratruththatwillsurelykillme.“Ordidyoumoveoutbecausehewastaken?”
“Isabelle,don’tdothistoyourself.”
“DidyouleavebecauseIdidsomethingtohim?SomethingIdon’tremember?”
Helooksatme,hismouthhalfopenlikehewantstorespond,butatthesametime,hecan’t.
“Answerme.”
Bensighs,lookingdownathisshoes.Finally,heshakeshishead.
“Ithinkyoushouldgohome,”hesaysatlast,turningaroundandopeningthedoor.IcanseeValerieinside,perchedontheedgeofabarstool,sympathyinhereyes.“Whateveritisyou’relookingfor…you’renotgoingtofindithere.”
CHAPTERFORTY-FOUR
AsmuchasIhatetoadmitit,Benisright.
I’mnotgoingtofindwhatI’mlookingforhere.Ihavetostartfromthebeginning—andthebeginningisn’tthenightMasonwentmissing.Itisn’tthenightBenandImet.
ThebeginningisbackinBeaufort.ThebeginningisthenightMargaretdied.Thatisthebeginning—thetipofthefirstdomino.Thecataclysmicbutterflyflapthatsentmyentirelifeintomotion.Ican’tignoreitanymore.Ican’tpretendtobelievemyfather’slies,pushingdownalltheevidenceIhadseenformyself:thenightgown,thecarpet,themud.BecauseI’veknown,forawhilenow,howitlooks.Whereitpoints.
NotonlywithMargaret,butwithMason,too.
I’veknown,I’vejustrefusedtoseeit.I’verefusedtoturnonthelight.Butthefactofthematteris,Ican’tlivemylifeinthedarkanymore.Ican’t.It’sbeentoolong.
I’minthecarnow,drivingnorthalongthecoast.Homeislessthananhouraway,andstill,Irarelygoback.Onlywhenit’sabsolutelynecessary.Ihaven’tcalled,haven’tgivenmyparentswarningofmyarrival,becausetobehonest,Idon’twanttocommitmyselftoit.Iwanttogivemyselftheoptionofpullingup,seeingthathouse—myhouse—loominglargebehindthatwrought-irongateandsimplyturningaroundanddrivingbacktoSavannah,becauseIknowthemeresightofit,thememories,mightbestrongenoughtochangemymind.
IdriveacrossPortRoyalSound,myeyesskippingoverthevastocean,andintodowntown,passingsomanylandmarks—allofthem,insomeway,abackdroptomyyouth:BayStreet,teemingwithtourists,whereMargaretandIusedtogoforicecreamonwarmSaturdaynights.PigeonPointandthatoldwoodenplaygroundwherewewouldwalkeachweekend,thetwoofusholdinghandsaswecrossedthebusystreet.Iremembertheslide,particularly.Thatshinymetalandthewaythesunwouldmakeitashotasastovetop,butwedidn’tseemtocare.Wewouldstillrushupthatladder,overandoverandoveragain,andglidedownonourbacks,ourstomachs,oursides.Iremembertheskippingofourbareskinasourshirtsrodeup,ourbodiessquealingallthewaydownastheystucktothemetallikeeggsonafryingpan.Thattinnyburnandtheredweltsonourfingertipsthatwouldeventuallycrustandpeel.
Idrivepastthecemeterynext,anunavoidablelandmark,andlooktheotherway.
Finally,Igettomystreet.Islowthecarconsiderably,practicallycrawlingtowardthecul-de-sac,likeaprisonermakinghiswaytothegallows,stallingfortime.Myhousesitsattheverybackofit,theendpointoftheroad.Goanyfartherandyou’ddropintothesea.
Ipullofftotheside,parkonthegrass,andclimboutofthecar,thewhiffofsaltandmudhittingmeassoonasIopenthedoor.Thegateisstillthere;theplaque,stillthere,althoughbynow,theivyhasgrownsothickthatyoucannolongerreadtheinscription.Thejasmineissupposedtobeinbloomthistimeofyear,itsnutmeggysmellinfiltratingtheair,butthetinywhiteblossoms,usuallythinandspindlylikestarfishbleachedfromthesun,arebrownandcrustyinstead,theirpedalsflakingofflikedriedskin.
Eventheplantscan’tescapethedeathofthisplace.
Imakemywaytothehouseslowly.Toanybodyelse,itwouldbesuchasereneview,buttome,thememoriesprevail.Iseethatgiantoaktreewithlimbslikefingers,andthestatuesthatseemtotakeonlivesoftheirown.Thedockthatjutsintothemarsh,itsboardsnowmangledandcrackingfromsaltwaterandneglect.Themassivewillowinourfrontyard,itsvastnetworkofrootseruptingfromthetrunkandgrowingoverthegrassinalldirectionsbeforeburrowingbeneaththedrivewaylikevaricoseveins,gnarledandthrobbingandcrackingthepavement.
There’sasicknessinthisproperty:somethingwickedthat’sbeenpulsingthroughthehouseforcenturies.Evenasagirl,Icouldfeelit.Icouldfeelittravelingthroughusall.
Iexhale,reachmyhandthroughthebars,andunhookthelatch.ThenIwalktowardthefrontdoor,knowingthatthey’rehome.Icansmellthefreshlavenderoftheirlaundrydetergentbillowingoutthroughtheairvent;Icanseetheircarsparkedintheback,eventhoughIknownobodyeverdrivesthem.Growinguphere,there’sjustsomethingaboutthisplace—asensation,afeeling—that’sbeeningrainedinme,burieddeep,likeasplinterwedgedfastintotheskin.I’vespentmyentirelifetryingtoignoreit,tryingnottobotherit,andintime,itseemedtojustbecomeapartofme:somethingwronginsidethat’sstucksodeep,mybodyjustlearnedtolivewithit.Growarounditlikeatumor.
Buthere,now,Icanfeelitflaringupagain,themeresightofthisplacehittingitinjusttherightway.
Ipushmyfingerintothebellnowandhearthenoiseontheotherside,bouncingoffthewalls,theemptyspace.Iwait,tryingnottofidget,knowingthat,oncetheyanswer,I’llbeface-to-facewithmyparentsforthefirsttimesinceMasonwastaken.Finally,Ihearthetwistofthelock;theoldhingescreakingastheheavydoorlurchesopen.Ihearmyfather’sdrythroatclearing—ahabithepickedupfromsmokingandhasneverbeenabletodrop—andsayasilentthank-youthatit’shimI’llhavetofacefirst
“Hey,Dad.”Helooksupatme,obviouslysurprisedtoseemestandingthere.Iflashhimameeksmile,shrugalittle,andlookdownattheground,studyingmyshoes.“MindifIcomein?”
CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE
THEN
It’sbeensixmonthswithoutMargaret,andsomehowbotheverythingandnothinghaschanged.
WeloweredherintothegroundatBeaufortNationalCemetery.Irememberstandingthere,dressedinblack,thelittlewhiteheadstonesalignedinperfectlyspacedstraightlines.Theyremindedmeoffangs,smallandpointy,orofstandinginsideagiantshark’smouth,lostamidsttheendlessrowsofjaggedteeth.Allofusnothingmorethanscrapsoffleshsnaggedagainsttheirserratededges.
Thepastorhadcalleditanhonorforhertobeburiedthereamongsomeofournation’sbravestsoldiers—Dadwasaveteran,afterall,whichmeantthatoneday,hewouldjoinherthere,too.Ididn’tseeitasanhonor,though.Isawitasacrueldishonor,becauseburyingherthereimpliedthattherewassomethingvaliantaboutherdeath—somethingheroicandnecessary—wheninreality,shediedbychokingondirtymarshwater,facedowninthemud.
Itwasraining,Iremember,butnobodyhadthoughttobringanumbrella,sowejuststoodthere,thethreeofus,waterdrippingoffmymother’sringletcurlsaswewatchedthetinycasketbeingloweredintoapitofsludge.Herdollwasinthere,too,tuckedbeneathherarm.Momcouldn’tstandthethoughtofMargaretbeingburiedalone,buttherewassomethingeerieaboutittome,imaginingthoseporcelaineyesstillopenasthecasketwasbeingclosed,envelopingthembothindarkness.Thefactthattimewouldgoon,Margret’sbodywoulddecayandrotandturnintonothingbutbones,andthere,stillwedgedintoher
Afteritwasover,wedrovehomeinsilence,eachofusretreatingtoourownquietcornersofthehouse.Momcouldn’tstopcrying;Dadcouldn’tstopdrinking.Heretiredafewmonthslater,decidingtostayhomewithMomandmeindefinitely.MaybeMargaret’sdeathforcedhimtorealizehowmuchofherlifehehadmissed;maybethepublicityofherdrowningwastoohardtoavoid,thequestionstoohardtoanswer,sohedecidedtojustshuthimselfin.
OrmaybeMommadehim.Maybeshewastooafraidtospendanymorenightswithmealone.
Insomeways,lifehasgoneonasifnothingevenhappened,likestubbingyourtoeandtryingtowalkthroughthepainwithtearsinyoureyes.SchoolstartedupagaininAugust,thewayitalwayshas,andIjustwentthroughthemotionsasifeverythingwerefine.AsifMargaret’slittlebackpackweren’tstillsuspendednexttomineinthemudroom,partiallyzippedshutwithherfavoritesweaterpeekingout.Itwaslikeweallwanteditthereforher,justincasesheclawedherwayoutofthatcoffinandcamewalkingbackfromthegraveyard,wetandshiveringandcoveredinmud,lookingforsomethingtokeepherwarm.Herbedroomremainsuntouched,thoughMominsistsonleavingthedoorshut.Dadsaysit’sbecauseshecan’tstandtoseeit:herlittlebed,herpinkwalls,herwhitemeshcanopydanglinglikeacobwebfromtheceiling.Sometimes,Istopinthedoorframeandtrytoimaginewhatitmusthavefeltlikeforhertoopenhereyesandseemestandingthere,rigidandstaring,asilhouetteinthedark.
Howafraidshemusthavebeen.
Inotherways,though,lifeafterMargarethasbeenunimaginablydifferent.Holidayshavecomeandgoneandwe’vejustignoredthemall,pretendedtheydidn’texist,asifdisregardingthepassageoftimewouldmakethefactthattheworldwasmovingonwithoutheralittlelessreal.Everythingremindsmeofhernow:thetasteofsweettea,thesmellofthemarsh.ThequietnessofthehouseeverymorningasImakemywaydownstairs,thedeafeningsilenceamplifiedevenfurtherbythefactthatsheisn’theretofillitwithherfootsteps,herlaughter,hervoice
Mom’sstoppedpainting,herthird-floorstudioslowlymorphingintoaroomforstorage.Dad’shomeconstantly,hischeeks,onceperfectlysmooth,sproutingwirylittlehairsthathaveslowlygrownintoafullyformedbeardpepperedwithgray.Wehavevisitorsonoccasion:ChiefMontgomerycheckingin,theneighborsofferingcasserolesandcondolences.Thetouristspokingtheirheadsthroughthebarsfeelsevenmoreominousnow,likeitisn’tthehistorytheywanttosee,butsomethingdarker.AweekafterMargaretdied,abaldmanwithovalglassesstartedcomingovertwiceaweek,listeningtoMomcry.Henodshisheadandscribblesnotesonalegalpadasshetalks—or,moreoften,justsitsinsilence,tearsdrippingfromherchin—leavingherwithvariousbottlesofpillsthatkeepmultiplyingonthecountertop.
Thebiggestchange,though,seemstobewithmysleep—or,rather,mylackthereof.Iusedtobesuchadeepsleeper;Iusedtofallasleepinaninstant,liketheclosingofmylidssignaledtomybrainthatitwastimetoshutoff,too.Partsofit,anyway.ButnowIlieawake,unblinkingeyesontheceiling,watchingasmyroommorphsslowlyfromdusktodawn.It’slikemybrainwantsmetoremembersomething;itwon’tshutdownuntilIremember.AndwhenIdofallasleep—finally,afterhoursofviolentfitsandbursts—Ihavethesamedream,always.
Everysingletime,Idreamofher.
Idreamofthetwoofusoutside,theglowofthemoonmakingournightgownsshineaswestandattheedgeofthewater.Idreamofherhandinmine,fingerstight,hernecktwistingasshestaresatmeinthedarkness.
Hereyeswide,trusting,beforesheturnsbackaround,facesthemarsh.
Andthenshetakesaslowstepforward,hertoessendingaripplethroughthewaterasIstandbackandwatchhergo.
CHAPTERFORTY-SIX
NOW
I’vegrownusedtouncomfortablesilenceinthishouse.AfterMargaret,that’sallthereeverwas.
DadofferedmeadrinkwhenIfirstwalkedin.“Wehavewhiskey,wine…”Hisvoicetrailedoffbeforehecouldfinish.Hewasembarrassed,Ithink,whenherealizeditwasn’tyetnoon.
“Coffee,”Isaid.“Please.Thanks.”
We’reinthelivingroomnow,thethreeofussittinginoppositecorners.I’mperchedontheedgeofthecouch—thekindofcouchthat’spurchasedforaestheticalone,thecushionstheconsistencyofcardboard,andtheupholsteryaclean,crispwhite—whilemyparentsareintwoarmchairsoneithersideofthefireplace.There’satrayofcookiesbetweenusarrangedinanornatecircle.Mymombroughtthemout—mostly,Ithink,togiveherhandssomethingtodo,anexcusenottotouchme.Iknowthey’rejustgoingtositthere,growingstale.Thatshe’llbrushthemallintothetrashonceIleave,slapthelidshut,likemypresencealonesomehowrenderedthemspoiled.
“Igotyourcard,”Isayatlast.“Andthecheck.Thankyou.”
“Sure,”mydadsays,smiling.“It’stheleastwecoulddo.”
“Youdidn’thaveto,though.Imean,Idon’tneedit—”
Hewaveshishandasifbrushingoffagnat.
“How’sBen?”
Ilookathimandnoticehissetlipsandclenchedjaw.He’suncomfortable,graspingforconversation,amadscrambleinhismindthatI’msurebeganthemomentheopenedthedoorandsawmestandingontheothersideofit.He’sneverlikedtotalkaboutproblems;neitherofmyparentshave.Politicsandreligionwerealwayswelcomeinourhouse,butemotionsandfeelingsandallthoseotherstickysubjectsweresimplyburiedbeneathpilesofmoneyandpresentsuntiltheydisappearedaltogether.
“He’sfine,”Isayatlast.Ofcourse,theydon’tknowwe’reseparated.Inevertoldthem.“Busywithwork.”
“Good,”hesays,nodding.“That’sgood.”
Isetmycoffeeonthesidetable.Ihaven’ttakenasipsinceIsatdown.I’mtooafraidofsloshingtheliquidovertheside,stainingthecouch.Oldhabitsdiehard.ThenIglanceatmymother,atthewayshe’ssittingrigidinherchairlikeshe’sstrappedintoastraightjacket.Herhandsareclenchedtightinherlap,oneanklehookedaroundtheotherthewaywelearnedincotillion.They’vechangedsomuchsinceMargaretdied.Mymotherusedtoseetheworldinsuchvibrantcolors.Irememberthewayshewouldlookatmewithsuchwonderinhereyes—herheadlolledtotheside,fingersticklingatherchin,likeIhadcomeintothisworldasapieceofartwork,commissionedbyhersteadyhand,andsomehowsprungmyselffromthecanvas.Tookonalifeofmyown.Butnowit’slikeherworldhasfadedintoblackandwhite.
Whenevershelooksinmydirection,thosesameeyesskipovermecompletely,likeI’mnothingbutemptyspace.
“Sowhatcanwedoforyou,Izzy?”
Mydadsquirmsinhischair,crossinganduncrossinghislegs.He’schanged,too.Hisboomingvoicehaswitheredintoawhisper,jitteryandunsure.Heusedtocommandattentioneverytimehewalkedintoaroom,butnowit’slikehelooksforthenearestcornerandhidesthere,triestoblendintothewallpaper.
“Iwasactuallyintheneighborhood,”Ilie.“Forwork.I’mwritingastory.”
“Oh,that’sgreat,sweetie.”
Hedoesn’taskwhatit’sabout;Iknewhewouldn’t.Sometimes,Iwonderifitbothersthem:thefactthatmylifemovesforwardwhenMargaret’scametosuchanabruptandviolentending,likeacarcareeningintoawall.Myjob,myhusband,myson.Allremindersofwhatshewouldn’thave.WhatItookfromher.
Butthenagain,maybeitbringsthemsomesemblanceofcomfortthatI’vemanagedtodestroythosethingsonmyown.
“Howareyou,honey?”mymotherfinallyasks,theadditionofhervoicebothsuddenandstartling.“Howareyouholdingup?”
Ilookoverather.There’sthatquestionagain.Thequestionnobodyreallywantsyoutoanswer.
“I’m…youknow,”Isay,givingherapinchedsmile.“Notgreat,honestly.”
“Anyupdateswiththecase?”
Mydadcutsin,andIcanfeeltheshiftofpowerintheroomagain,almostlikethewayastormcloudaltersthepressureintheair,makingithardertobreathe.TheyhadmetMason,ofcourse—Iwouldneverkeepmyparentsfrommeetingtheirgrandson—butbythetimehecameintothisworld,thedistancebetweenushadgrownsovast,therewasnothingwecoulddotocrossit.Irememberthemsteppingintomyhomeforthefirstandlasttime,glancingaroundasiftheywereinamuseum,tooafraidtotouchanything.TiptoeingaroundroguetoysanddirtylaundrythesamewayIhadalwaysnavigatedtheirantiquevasesandbreakablethingswithasenseofacuteawareness,thoughthatsharptangofironyseemedtohavegoneovertheirheadscompletely.BenhadusheredthemtowardmeasInursedMasononthecouch,myoldbutton-upstainedandsour,andI’llneverforgetthewaymymotherblushedwhenshesawmelikethat,hereyesdartingtothegroundlikeshewasembarrassedforusboth.Theentirevisit,myfatherhadbeentheonetoholdhim,smellinghisheadandpinchinghischeeks,whileshesatsilentlybyhisside.Atonepoint,hehadthrustMasontowardher,gesturingforhertotakehim,andIfeltaspasminmychestasshelookedathim,thenupatme,mutteringaquietExcusemebeforestandingupandwalkingbackoutside.
Likeherowngrandsonwouldmakeherbreakoutinhives.
ShehadbeenthinkingaboutMargaret,I’msure.Abouthowsheshouldhavebeenthere—or,morelikely,abouthowitshouldhavebeenherbabywewereallintowntosee.I’msureshehadbeenimagininghersingingtothatdoll,hushingtohersleep.Bouncingheronherkneeinthekitchen.
Margaretwouldhavebeensuchagoodmother.Abettermotherthanme.
“No,notreally,”Isayatlast.Itdawnsonmenow:Iwonderifthey’vesuspecteditallalong.Mason’sdisappearance.Iwonderiftheyheardthenews,sawmyfaceonthetelevisionscreen,andthoughttothemselves:Ithappenedagain.
Iwonderiftheypicturedmeatnight,holdinghiminthedarkthesamewayImusthaveheldMargaret’shand.Ifthey’vebeenprotectingmenowthesamewaytheyprotectedmethen:throughsilence,secrets.Lies.
“Well,keepusposted,”myfathersays,likewe’retalkingaboutajobinterview.We’veneverreallygottenthehangofhowtointeractwithoneanothersinceMargaretleftus.Withoutheraroundtopadourinteractions,they’vefeltjaggedandawkward,likeoldfriendsbumpingintoeachotheratthegrocerystore.Exchangingpleasantrieswhilebitingourtongues,tastingblood,rackingourbrainsforexcusestoleave.
“Ipassedthecemeteryonmywayhere,”Isay,lookingforanopening.“Haveyoubeentovisitrecently?”
Icatchaglimpseofashudderrollthroughmymother’sbody,likeshewashitwithasuddenblastofcold.Myfathercockshishead,likehedoesn’tknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.
“Imightstopbylater,”Icontinue.“Ihaven’tbeen,youknow,since—”
“WegoeverySunday,”mydadinterrupts.“Afterchurch.”
“That’sgood.”
Silenceagain.Mymotherisscratchingatthefabricofherarmchair,hernailsdiggingintotheexpensivethreads.Icatchmydadstealingaglanceatthegrandfatherclock,probablywonderinghowaminutecouldpossiblymovesoslowly.
“Youknowwedon’ttalkaboutitmuch,”Isay,unabletopeelmyeyesfromthecarpet.Thisiswhereweusedtolie:MargaretandI,stomachsontheoriental,flippingthroughissuesofTheGritandsoundingoutthewordstogetherRevealingstoriesofanotherworld,anotherlife,imaginingourselvesrippedfromourownandimplantedintothepages.“Thatnight,whathappened.We’veneveractuallytalkedaboutit—”
“What’stheretotalkabout?Itwasaterribleaccident.”
Ilookatmymother—stillsilent,stillscratching—andbacktomydad.Thatairofauthorityhascreptbackintohisvoicejustalittlebit.Justenoughforhimtosignalthatthisconversationisoff-limits.
“Itwas.”Icontinuepushingforward.“ButIthinkitmighthelpmeifwecouldjusttalkaboutit.MomaskedhowIwasdoing—”
“Okay,”hesays,leaningforward,restinghischinonhispalm,likehe’sapsychiatrist,studyingme.“Whatwouldyouliketotalkabout,Isabelle?”
“Ihave…memories,Iguess,ofthatnight.Somethingsthathavebeenbotheringme.Thingsthatdon’tmakesense.”
Myparentsshooteachotheralook.
“Like,whenIwokeupthatmorning…therewaswateronthecarpet.”Iforcemyselftocontinue,hawkingupthewordslikevomitstuckinmythroat.“IwaswearingadifferentnightgownfromwhatIfellasleepin.Therewasmud—”
“Isabelle,whatisthisabout?”mydadasks,hisvoicesuddenlysofter.“Whyareyoudraggingallthisbackup?”
“BecauseIneedtoknowwhathappened!”Ishout,louderthanIintendto.Myvoiceseemstoechooffthewalls,thegrandpiano,apitchywhiningvibratingoffthestrings.“Ineedtoknow—”
“Yoursisterhadanaccident,sweetie.Itwasnobody’sfault.”
Irememberthewayhehadcoachedmethatmorning,recitingthosesamewordsoverandoveragain.Thewaymymotherhadlookedatme,headtiltedtotheside,hereyescloudywithawaxyshinelikeshethoughtIwasaghost.
“ButIfeellikeIwasthere.Iremember—”
“Don’tdothis,”hesays,theexactsamewordsBenhadsaidtomethismorningnowechoingupmyfather’sthroat.“Isabelle,don’tdothistoyourself.”
CHAPTERFORTY-SEVEN
Iforgothowthesunsetshere.Slowly,atfirst,theturquoisegraduallymorphingintoaslatheringofpeachesandyellowsandtangerinesbleedingtogetherlikewatercolors—andthen,quickasablink,it’slikesomeonelitamatchandsetfiretothesky,theblazetravelingacrossthecanvasasifitweredrenchedinkeroseneandlefttoburn.I’monthedocknow,watchingasthesundipsbelowthehorizon.Withduskreflectingoffthewater,italmostfeelslikeI’msittinginit,rightinthemiddle:aroomonfirewithflamesaboveandbelowme,swallowingmewhole.
“Stayfordinner,”Dadhadsaid,changingthesubjectasquickasawhipcrack.Ididn’twantto,butatthesametime,Idid,soIglancedatmymother,lookingforahintofpermissioninhergaze.
Shegavemeatwitchofasmile,asmallnod,andsoIagreed.
Thekitchenlookeddifferent,ouroldcobaltbacksplashreplacedwithsubwaytile,simpleandwhite.Someofithadtoberenovatedafterthatsummerfire,ofcourse,buttherest,Iknew,wasanattempttoerasethememories,thepast.Thereweretinypotsofherbssetagainstthewindowsill:basilandrosemaryandparsleyandsage,givingtheairawoodysmell,likefreshlymowngrass.IwatchedasMomclippedattheleaveswithlittlesilverscissors,collectingaheapinherpalm.Idon’trememberhercookingmuch,butsheseemedtoknowwhatshewasdoing.
Ihadbeenchoppinglettucefordinner,acleaverinmygripandmyeyessomewheredistant,whenMomplacedahandonmyshoulder,startlingmebacktothepresent.
“YouknowIloveyou,”shesaid,hervoiceshaking.Itseemedlikeanattemptatreconciliation;amomentofforgivenessIneverfeltIdeserved.“Youknowthat,right?”
Istandupfromthedocknow,brushingthepollenfrommyjeans.Despitetheirattemptsatredecorating,aterasingthememoriesofMargaret,Icanstillseehereverywherehere:Inthekitchentablewheresheusedtosit,singingtoherdollinthathigh-pitchedvoice.Inthecopperskilletshangingabovethestove,thesameonesIusedtomakeheromeletsin,slidingtheeggsontoaplateandplacingitinfrontofher.Watchinghereat.Inthebackyardwhereweusetositwiththosestatues,sweetteainhand,andhereonthedock,especially,waterlappingagainstthepilingslikeasoft,ceaselessnudge.
It’sgettingdarkoutside,themoonfingernailthin,andIstartthelongwalkbackupthedock.IagreedtostaythenightaftershootingmyneighboratexttocheckonRoscoe.Maybeit’sbecauseIdon’twanttogohome,feeltherestoredemptinessofmyhousewithoutWayloninit,orthinkabouthowallthosepeopleattheconferencehadbeenrightallalong.HowtheyhadsomehowseenmemoreclearlythanI’veeverbeenabletoseemyself.
Ormaybeit’sbecause,afteralltheseyears,itfinallyfeelsliketheicywallmyparentshaveerectedbetweenussinceMargaret’sdeathisslowlystartingtomelt.Thatincominghere,Ihadextendedanolivebranch.ThatIwasapologizing,fortheveryfirsttime,forwhatIdid—andinreturn,theywereapologizingforleavingmesoalone.
ForseemingtoforgetthatI’mtheirdaughter,too.
Iwalkthroughthebackyard,pastthestatuesandtherosebushesandthegiantstonebirdbathwithadeadpalmettobugfloatingonitsback.ThenIstepthroughthebackdoor,thehousequietandstill.Myparentsretreatedtotheirbedroomanhourago—partly,Ithink,becauseweranoutofthingstosay—andIwalkintothekitchenagain,emptyingthebottleofwineweopenedearlierintoafreshglass.ThenIwalkupthestairs,downthehallway,andintomyoldbedroom.
They’veredecoratedhere,too,anewqueeninplaceofthechildhoodbedItookwithmetoSavannah.Itlookslikeaproperguestroomnow,thoughIknowtheydon’thaveanyguests.IresisttheurgetopeekintoMargaret’sroom—toseeifthey’veerasedthat,too—andinsteadplacemywineonthebedsidetable,strippingoffmyclothesandchangingintothepairofpajamasMomlaidoutformeonthemattress.
ThenIsitonthefloor,cradlingthewineagainstmychest,andwonderhowI’llspendthenexttenhoursaloneinthedark.
JustlikewhenIwasachild,thehouseseemstocomealiveatnight.Icanhearitbreathing—thedraftinthehallwaylikealongexhale;thepopofthefloorboardsacrackingneck.Margaret’svoice:Youeverfeellikewe’renotalone?Icreepoutofmybedroomandglanceatthestairs:thethirdfloor.Whereweusedtopaint,MargaretandI,theFrenchdoorsswungopenandawarmbreezelikebreathonournecks
Istarttoclimb,rememberingthewayweusedtohuddleonthebalcony,mugsofhotchocolatecuppedinourhandsanytimethetemperaturedroppedbelowfifty.Margaretmakingwishesonshootingstarsorpointinghungrilyatthewateranytimewesawthebreachofafinortheskidofshrimpdimplingtheglassysurface.
Ireachthelandingandlookaround,thegiantopenroomnowhousingoldfurniturecoveredinsheetslikebanishedghosts.Mom’seaselisstillinthecorner,facingthefloor-to-ceilingwindowslikeshewasjustmid-paint,andIcanpicturehereyesflickingbackandforthbetweenthecanvasandthebackyard,swirlingherbrushagainstthevariouscolorsofherpalette,itsownabstractworkofart.Thatthinslabofwoodtellsthestoriesofpaintingspast:thepinksheusedtocolorMargaret’sflushedcheeks,thegreenofmyfather’sarmchair,theblueoftherisingtide.
Iwalktheperimeteroftheroom,holdingtheglassbelowmychinlikeasecurityblanket,tryingtomakeouttheshapesinthedark.
Inthebackcorner,Icomeacrossapileofpaintingsperchedagainstthewall,soIsitonthehardwoodfloor,legscrossed,andstartthumbingthroughthem.Someofthemarefinished—abowloffruitonthekitchencounter,thecreepingjasmineswallowingthebricksofourfrontgate—whilesomesheabandonedmidwaythrough:theroughoutlineofa
Iflipthroughacouplemore,smilingattheonesIrecognize,whensuddenly,Istop.
There,intheback,istheoneIhadseenthatsummer:meinmywhitenightgown,standingattheedgeofthemarsh—onlynowIrealizewhatIhadseenbeforewasn’tfinished.Nowthatgirlisflankedbytwootherbodies:onewithbrownhaircascadingoverhershouldersandtheother,sosmall,withlocksthecolorofcaramelcandy.Thethreeofthemareholdinghands,walkingintothewatertogether,thatspringtidemoonlightingtheway.
Andthat’swhenithitsme.
ThegirlIhadseeninthepainting—thegirlMargarethadpointedtoandassumedtobeme—wasn’tactuallymeatall.
Andsheisn’twearinganightgown.Theoneinthemiddle:She’swearingarobe.
“Isabelle.”
Ijumpatthevoicebehindme,knockingmywineglassoverwithmyknee.ThenIspinaround,theredliquidspillingacrossthefloorboardslikeblood,andregisterabodyinthedarkbeforeme.It’smymother,theglowofthemoonilluminatingherface;tearsstreamingdownhercheekslikerainonawindow.
“Isabelle,honey,letmeexplain.”
CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT
Iliketothinkofourmemorieslikeamirror:reflectingimagesbacktous,somethingfamiliar,butatthesametime,backward.Distorted.Notquiteastheyare.Butit’simpossibletolookourpaststraightintheeye,toseethingswithperfectclarity,sowehavetorelyonthememories.
Wehavetohopetheyaren’tsomehowwarpedorbroken,bendingrealitytofitthewaywewishthingswere.
“Iwassick,”mymothersaystomenow,steppingforwardinthedark.Herarmsareoutstretched,andIcrawlback,afraidtolethergettooclose,mypalmpushingintotheshatteredglassonthefloor.“Isabelle,honey.Iwasvery,verysick.”
Thememoriesofmymotherhavealwaysbeendreamlikeandhazy:herinthosegossamerwhiterobes,withcurlslikealion’smaneandthattrancelikegaze.It’slikeIwantedtoseeherinthemostflatteringlight,hersharpedgesbuffedoutandairbrushedtoperfection:anangeloragoddessorsomethingnotentirelyhuman.Notentirelyreal.
“Whatdoyoumean,sick?”
I’mtryingtoignorethestingingcutinmyhand;thetrickleofbloodIfeeldrippingdownmywrist.
“ItstartedwhenwelostEllie.”
“Ellie?”Iask,unabletomaskmyconfusion.“Margaret’sdoll?”
Ithinkofallthetimesshewastherewithus,porcelaineyeswatchingovereverything.Virtuallyeverymemoryfromthosefinalmonthshasherinit:Margaretsingingtoherinthekitchenornestlingherbetweenusinbedthatlastnight,mymother’shandsonourcheeks
“Mygirls,”shehadsaid.“Mytwobeautifulgirls.”
AndthenMargaret:“YouforgotEllie.”
Suddenly,likethecockofashotgundemandingattention,Ifeelthepiecesstartingtoslipintoplace.
Ithinkofthestrangenessofmymother’slaugheverytimeMargaretmentionedthatname;hersadlittlesmilesandthewayshewouldclearherthroatandwalkawaybeforesheretreatedtoherbedroomandshutthedoorbehindher,leavingusaloneforhoursonend.Thedistantlookinhereyeswhenshegazedoutthewindow,likeshewasstaringatsomethingtherestofuscouldn’tsee.
“OhmyGod,”Isay,finallyremembering.Reallyremembering.Likethatsplinter,buriedindeep,thepaincomesshootingbackagain,almostbringingmetomyknees.
Ithinkofthegentleslopeofherstomachbeneaththatflimsywhiterobe,stillslightlyswollen,likeaballoondeflatingslowly.Losingitsshape.
“Yes,well.Ofcoursewecan’tforgetaboutEllie.”
Butwedid.Weforgotabouther—oratleast,Iforgotabouther.Eloise,Ellie,mysecondsister.Theonewhodiedbeforeshecouldeventakeherfirstbreath.
Irememberitallnow,notfragmentedlikeadreamoranightmare,butinsudden,startlingclarity:mymother’sscreamsastheyechoeddownthehall,andMargaretcomingintomybedroom,herlittleeyespeekingthroughmycrackeddoorthewayshealwaysdidwhenshewasafraid.Scamperingintomybedandthetwoofushuddledbeneaththecoverstogether,flashlightsshining,tellingeachotherstoriestotrytodrownoutthenoise—andthenthedeafeningsilencethatfollowed,almostlikethehousehadstoppedbreathing,too.
Irememberworkingupthecouragetocreepoutofmyroom,finally,myeyeslandingonmyfatherashepacedoutsidetheirbedroom,brownbottleinhand.Icouldseemymotherinbed,coveredinblood.Sheetsstainingredassheheldsomethinglimpandlifelessinherarmsandthesuddensoundofherfragilevoicetravelingdownthehall.
“Hushlittlebaby,don’tsayaword.Mama’sgonnabuyyouamockingbird.”
Iseeherinthekitchen,weekslater,fingerstwistingthroughMargaret’shairasshebouncedthatdollagainstherhip.
“Haveyounamedheryet?”
AndthenMargaret’sanswer,followedbythesuddenstillnessofmymother’shand,likeherveinshadfrozentoice;herface,sadandpale,likeshehadseenaghost.
“Ellie,”shehadsaid,thatproudsmiletuggingatherlips.“LikeEloise.”
“Eloise,”Isaynow,thenamesuddenlysofamiliar.Ihadevenseenhernurseryonce.ThedoorwasperpetuallyclosedthewayMargaret’swas,too,eventually,likeitwaseasiertojustwalkrightpastitandpretendsheneverevenexisted.ButIhadseenit—wehadseenit—MargaretandI,duringoneofthoselong,summerdayswhenwewanderedaroundthehouseunsupervised.Wehadpeekedinside,lookedathercrib.Trailedourfingersalongthatlittlewhiterockingchairsittingmotionlessinthecornerandreadhername—Eloise—embroideredontoeverything.
That’swhereshegotit:Margaret.That’swhereshegotthename.
Ican’tevenimaginehowthatmusthavefeltformymother:Margaretnamingherownbabyaftertheonemymotherhadjustlost.Singingthatexactsamesongtoheroverandoverandoveragain,pushingonabruisesoitcouldneverreallyheal.Itwasn’tintentional,Iknow,butMargaretwasalwayslistening,alwaysremembering.Alwaysmirroringwhatshesawtherestofusdo,rockingherownlittleEllieinherarms,silentandstill.
“Wereyoudepressed?”Iasknow,tearsinmyeyes.“Mom,ofcourseyouwouldbe—”
Lookingback,Irealizenowthatmymotherwashere,withus,butshewasn’tactuallywithus.Notreally.MargaretandIwerealwaysonourown:makingourselvesbreakfastinthemorningandwanderingaroundthehouseatnight.Playingnearthewaterandwalkingtotheparkalone,handinhand,crossingbusystreetsoftrafficwithoutaparentinsight.
Alwaysinournightgowns,evenlongaftermorninghadpassed.
Itseemedsoidyllicbackthen,likesomekindoffairytale.There’snowaywecouldhaveknownwhatwashappening,whatwasreallygoingon.LiketheLostBoysofPeterPan,callingoutformother,ourfreedomwasanillusion.
Whatitreallywas,wasneglect.
“No,”mymothersays,shakingherhead,asadlittlesqueakeruptingfromsomewheredeepinherthroat.“No,itwasn’tthat.Itwassomethingmorethanthat.”
LosingElliewasthemomentwelostmymother,too.Themomenteverythingchanged.EventhenIfeltit,thoughIdidn’tunderstand.Thatfeelingofdeaththatwasalwaysthere,alwayspresent,swollenandbloatedandhoveringovereverythinglikeitwasjustbidingitstime,waitingtoclaimoneofusnext.Thestrangenessofit,ofher,settlingoverthehouse,likewehadallmorphedintothoseplushfabricdolls,buttonsforeyes,movingthroughthemotionslikenothinghadhappened.
Likenoneofuswerereallyusanymore.
“Itriedtotellyourfatherthatsomethingwasn’tright,”shecontinues.“ThatIwasfeelingthings,thinkingthings,thatwerestartingtoscareme.”
Isuddenlyrememberthesoundofmymother’svoicethatnight,seepingthroughmyfather’sofficedoorasIstoodontheothersideofit,listening.Thelittlebegthateruptedfromthebackofherthroat.
“Youdon’tknowwhatit’slike.Henry,youdon’tunderstand.”
Ialwaysthoughtshewastalkingaboutmewalkingthroughthehouseatnight:eyesopen,bodyrigid.It’sdangeroustowakeasleepwalker.Ialwaysthoughtshewassayingthathedidn’tunderstandwhatitwaslikelivingwithme,dealingwithme.Thatshewasafraidofme
Butthatwasn’tthecase.Thatwasn’tthecaseatall.
Shewasafraidofherself.
CHAPTERFORTY-NINE
“Whatdidyoudo?”Iwhisper,therealityofwhatmymotheristryingtotellmemakingthebloodturnsolidinmyveins.“Mom,whatdidyoudo?”
Icanhearthethumpingofmyownheartinmyears,likeholdingyournoseandplungingunderwater;Iwatchasshehugsherself,thoselong,thinfingersdiggingintotheskinofherarms,andthinkbacktothatfinalnightwithMargaretagain.Ithadbeensohot,toohot,ourbodiesstickingtogetherwithsweatinmybed.Ithinkaboutthewayshehadwhinedinthebathtub—“Howmuchlonger?”—andmymother’sfingerstrailingacrossthecoolwater,leavingbehindlittleripplesinherwake,likethefinofasharkbarelybreachingthesurface.
“Notmuchlonger,”shesaid.“We’llbecomfortablesoon.”
“Bymorning?”
Andthenthatsmileagain:sadandresigned,likesomeonesofarpastherbreakingpoint.Someonewhoknew,deepdown,shewasabouttodosomethingwrong.Somethingterrible.
“Sure.Bymorning.”
Istareatmymotherfromacrosstheroomnow,finallylettingthepiecesfallintoplace.Sheletsoutalittlewetchoke,lowerliptrembling,andsomethingaboutthewaythemoonlightishittingherfacethroughthewindowswigglesanothermemoryfree.It’sthatdreamagain;thatdreamthatkeptrepeatingitselfinthemonthsimmediatelyafterMargaretdied.Butitwasn’tadreamatall,wasit?Instead,itwasamemorythatemergeddisjoinedandunclear,likeareflectioninashatteredmirror,fragmentsreflectingbacktomeasIlayinbed,restlessandthrashing.
Dr.Harrishadtoldme,afterall,thatsleepwalkerscansometimesremember:“It’slikerecallingadream.”
It’softhetwoofusoutside,Margaretandme,theglowofthemoonmakingournightgownsshine.Standingattheedgeofthewater,handinhand,Margarettwistinghernecktostareatmeasifaskingpermissionbeforeturningbackaroundandfacingthemarsh.Italwaysstoppedthere,thedream,butnowIcanseetherestofit:Margarettakingaslowstepforwardandsendingawaveofripplestowardmymother,standingbeforeus,waterlappingathercalves.Thatwhiterobedripping,translucentagainstherskin,asshestretchedoutherarmsandbeckonedusforward.
Thatlittlesmileonherlips,andhereyesglassyandgray,fillingwithtears.
“Why?”Iask,rememberinghowMargarethadsteppedforwardwhileIhungback,watching—seeing,butnotreallyseeing.Howshehadtrustedme.HowIhadlethergo.“Whywouldyoudothat?WhyMargaret?”
“Itwasn’taboutMargaret,”sheshakesherhead.“Itwasaboutus.Allofus.”
“Idon’tunderstand—”
ButthenIseemymother’shandrestingonMargaret’scheekinthekitchen,staringatuslikeweweren’tevenreal.
“Iwishyoucouldstaymybabiesforever.”
“Itriedoneothertime,”shecontinues,takingastepforward.“Ileftthegasonthestoveovernight.Irememberhopingitwouldbequick.Thinkingitwastherightthingtodo,even.Thatwewouldjustgotosleepandwakeuptogether—allofus,somewhereelse,andeverythingwouldbeokay.”
She’squiet,hereyessomewherefaraway,remembering.
“Somethingcaughtfirebeforethecarbonmonoxidecouldspread.”
Irememberrousingawakeinthefrontyard,thesightofthoseflameslickingupthewallsasIblinkedmyblearyeyes.Theheatonmyskinasmyfathersqueezedmyhandandledmebacktobed.
“Heknew,”Isaynow,notaquestionbutastatement—becausesuddenly,itallmakesperfectsense.“Dadknew.”
“Ican’tblamehim,”mymothersays.“Thingsweredifferentbackthen.Peopledidn’tliketotalkaboutit.”
Mymotherhadcometohim,andhehadn’tlistened.Shehadlostachild—heldherdeadbabyinherarms,singingtoitsoftlyasifitcouldsomehowhear—andstill,weekafterweek,heleftheralone,vulnerableandafraid.
“Maybeifwecouldgetsomehelp,”shehadasked,thatdesperatevoicetravelingbeneaththeofficedoor.“IfIcouldgetsomehelp.”
Andthenmyfather,hisvoicetough,likeacallusonyourpalm:“No.”
“Yes,youcan,”Isaynow,myeyesonhersinthedark.ThefearIhadjustfeltsecondsearlierisquicklybeingreplacedwithsomethingnew,somethingdifferent.“Youcanblamehim,Mom.Youaskedhimforhelp.Yousetourhouseonfire,andhedidn’tdoanything.Hedidn’tlisten.”
Sheshakesherhead,hergazecastdowntothefloorlikeshe’sstillsoashamed.It’salwayssoeasytoblamethemother.
Abadmother.Aneglectfulmother.
“Hekeptsayingitwasanaccident,”shesays.“ThatIdidn’tdoitonpurpose.”
“Anaccident,”Irepeat,rememberingthewayhekeptreiteratingitafterMargaret,too,almostlikeheneededtobelieveithimself.
“Hedidn’twanttobelievethatthingshadgottenthatbad,”shecontinues.“Itwashardforhim,too,honey.Andhewasacongressman,Isabelle.Thewholefamilyline…theyhaveareputation.Hewasafraidofhowitmightlook.”
Idon’tknowhowtoprocessthis.Idon’tknowwhattothink:myfather,valuinghisjob,hisreputation,abovethesafetyofhisfamily—butatthesametime,itdoesn’tsurpriseme,either.Notreally.Everythinginourliveshadalwaysbeenforshow:ThewayMargaretandIweredressedinmatchingoutfitsandtheexpensivefurniturearrangedjustso.Thegianthouseandthemanicuredlawnandthewaystrangerswouldogleatusthroughthegateasifwe,too,wereondisplay.Asifweexistedfortheirconsumptionalone,satiatingtheircuriosityasweplayedthepart:childrenintheyard,mothertendingtothegarden.
Ourlifelikeapicture,tooperfecttobereal.
“Itwashard,”shecontinues.“Hewasgoneallthetime,working,andIwasalwaysalonewithyougirls.Aloneinmyhead.”
Ithinkaboutmymotherandthosestoriesshetold:thefeelingsonthebackofherneck,pricklingatherskin,likebeingwatched.Themeaningshehadassignedinanattempttomakesenseofwhatwashappeninginherownhead:someonetryingtosendheramessage,maybe.Someonetellinghertodothings,terriblethings,sheneverwouldhavedoneonherown.
Suddenly,IrememberallthosemomentswithMason,too:lettingmymindwandertothatdustycornerofthebrainwheremothersareneversupposedtogo.Thelatenights,theshrieking,theoverwhelmingurgetomakeitstopbyanymeansnecessary.Thosedirtylittlethoughtsthatwouldwormtheirwayintomyawarenessinthedark,andthewayIwouldletmyselfindulgeinthem,likesneakingintothepantryandgorgingmyselfsick:avile,frenziedfeeding.
Andthenthefearthatcreptinlikeaslowinjection.ThewayIwouldforcemyselftoputhimdown,backawayslowly.Convincemyselfthatitwasnormal.Becauseitisnormal,isn’tit?Feelingthatway?Buthowcouldyoupossiblyknow?Howdoyouknowifit’ssomethingmore?Somethingdangerous?
Andifitis…howdoyoustopit?
CHAPTERFIFTY
Ileftassoonasthesuncameup,mycarwindingdownthedrivewaywiththosestonestatuesinmyrearview:thebaby,theangel.Thewomanwiththesickness.Iwasn’tsureifIcouldfacetheminthedaylight:Mymother,forwhatshetoldme.Myfather,forwhathedid—orrather,whathedidn’tdo.
“Ialwaysthoughtitwasme,”Ihadsaid,anumbnesssettlingovermeasthecomprehensionsetin.Iwatchedasmymothercockedherhead,likeshedidn’tunderstand.“IalwaysthoughtIwastheonewholedheroutthere.ThatmaybeIwasasleep,andshefollowedme.Thatshetriedtowakeme,andI…Ididsomething—”
AndthenIrealized:Ineverreallysaidit.Notoutright,anyway.ItoldthemIhadmemoriesfromthatnightthatdidn’taddup:thewateronthecarpet,thecleannightgown,themudonmyneck.ItoldthemIwantedtoknowwhathappened—whatreallyhappened—andtheyhadglancedateachotherfromacrossthelivingroom,liketheywereafraidthattheirmaskwasslipping.Thattheirsecretwasabouttoberevealed.
Theirsecret.Notmine.
“Honey,no,”mymotherhadsaid,shakingherhead.Tearsstreaming.“No,youdidn’tdoanythingwrong.Ihadnoideayouthoughtthat.”
“HowcouldInothavethoughtthat?”Iyelled.“Margaretwasalwaysfollowingmearound.Iwasalwayswakingupinstrangeplaces.I’vespentmyentirelifethinkingthat.”
Iglancetothesidenow,atthethickfolderrestingonmypassengerseat.Mymotherhadhandedittomeafterwedescendedthestepstogetherinawordlessdaze,promisingitscontentswouldhelpexplaintherest.Ican’tbringmyselftoopenit,notyet,soinstead,Ikeepdriving,mybodyonautopilot.Idon’tevenknowwho’sresponsible;Idon’tevenknowwhoIshouldblame.Itwasmymother’shandsthatshookMargaretfromsleep,takingherinonearmandmeintheother,eyesopenbutempty,aswewanderedintothedark.Itwasherhandsthatbeckonedherintothewater,forefingerscurling,promisingherthatitwouldbeokay.Thatreliefwascoming.Thatwewouldbecomfortablesoon.Herhandsthatheldherdown,foughtthethrashing,reachedouttomenext,oncethemovementhadstopped.
Thattouchedmyneck,smearingthosethreefingersofmud,likeshewantedtofeelmyheartbeatfortheverylasttime,agentlepoundingthatwouldsoonslowtoastop.
Itwasherhands,butitwasn’ther.Notreally.Iknowitwasn’t.
Iwonderwhatitwaslikeforhim,myfather,snakinghisarmacrossthebedtofindnothingbutemptyspacewhereherbodyshouldhavebeen.Boltingupright,blinkinginthedark,instinctivelyknowingthatsomethingwaswrong.Iimaginehimthrowingonhisrobeandrunningintothekitchen,expectingtofindherthere:tamperingwiththestove,maybe,orstalkingthehallsthewayshesometimesdidwhenshecouldn’tsleep.Checkingoutsideandhopingtoseeherstandingbythemarshagain,barefoot,beforecomingbackinandleavingdirtyprintsonthecarpet.Makingthefloorboardspopassheroamedaround,watchingussleep.
Butwhenhegotoutthere,herealizedwhathadhappened.
Whathehadlethappen.
Hesawthethreeofusbeneaththeglowofthespringtidemoon:twoofus,standing,andthethird,thesmallest,facedowninthewater,stillasapieceofdriftwoodfloatingwiththecurrent.
IturnintoBeaufortNationalCemeterynow,justasthesunrisestartstobleedacrossthehorizon,andpullintotheemptylot.Theairisdewy,apermanentfloralaromafromallthearrangementslaidoneachgrave.Iwindmywaythroughtheheadstones—eventhoughIhaven’tbeenheresincethedayweburiedMargaret,Icouldneverforgetwheresheis—andfinally,whenIreachher,Ikneeldownontheturf,feelingthedampseepthroughthekneesofmyjeans.
Istareatherheadstone,animmaculatewhitemarble,hername,birthday,anddeathdayetchedintothesurface
MargaretEvelynRhettMay4,1993—July17,1999
Nexttoher,there’sanotherone,nearlyidentical.
EloiseAnnabelleRhettApril27,1999—April27,1999
Twopitifullyshortamountsoftime.
Iexhale,leanbackonmyfeet,andsqueezebackatear.Everythingmakessensenow:Margaretquestioningmeaboutthefootprintsthatdayonthewater,herheadtiltedtotheside.
“Isitbecauseofwhathappened?”
IhadstartedsleepwalkingrightafterwelostEllie,thetraumaofwhatwasgoingoninourhousetriggeringsomethinginsidemethatIcouldneverunderstand.
Margaretunderstood,though.Somehow,sheknew.
“We’renotsupposedtotalkaboutthat.”
Becauseweweren’t.Wenevertalkedaboutanything.Eventothisday,myparentsprefersecretsandsilencetouncomfortableconversation.Theyneverevenmentionedittous.Theyneverevenexplainedwhathappened;neverallowedustounderstandorgrieve.Theysimplyclosedthedoortohernurseryandcontinuedonasifeverythingwerefine,lettingmymemorywashheraway
Ithinkabouthowmymothercouldn’tlookatmethemorningafterMargaretdied—oranydaysincethatmorning—andthemanwhocametothehouseandtalkedtoher.Lethercry.ThewaymyfatherhadheldoutMason,andthewayshehadjuststoodup,walkedaway,likeshedidn’tfeelshedeservedit.
Lastnight,asweweremakingdinner.
“YouknowIloveyou.Youknowthat,right?”
Mymotherneverhatedme;sheneverblamedme.Shehatedherself.ShekilledMargaret,herowndaughter,andshehadtriedtokillme.Andbecauseofthat,shewouldn’tletherselfnearme.Shewouldn’tletherselfbemymotheragain.
IsupposeIshouldbegratefulmyfathergotthereintime—thatheranintothewaterandscoopedMargaretintohisarms,puttinghimselfbetweenmymotherandmebeforeshecoulddoitagain.Thathehadcleanedme,changedmyclothes,andledmebacktobedthewayhehaddonesomanytimesbeforewhenhefoundmewanderingaroundthehouseatnight.Thathehadcoachedmeinthemorning,toldmeexactlywhattosay.
Thathehadquithisjob,gottenmymotherthehelpthatsheneeded—butonlybehindthefortressedwallsofourhome
Onlyinsecret,wherenobodyelsecouldsee.
Itwouldhavebeentheendofhim,afterall.Everythingheandhisfatherandhisgrandfatherhadworkedtowardwouldbegoneinaninstantiftheworldfoundoutwhatmymotherhaddone.TheRhettnamewouldnolongerbecementedinhistoryassomethingregalandrefined;instead,itwouldbesynonymouswithdeath,justlikethehouseitself.
IthinkaboutthewayChiefMontgomeryhadbarelyevenpushedmethatmorning,likeheonlyneededmetoreciteafewlines.Howheandmyfatherhadhuddledtogetherafter,whisperedontheporchsteps,craftingtheperfectstory:justatragicaccident.Asummerdrowning.Thewrongsideofthestatistic.Deepdown,thechiefmusthaveknownitwasn’ttrue,butstill,helethimselfbelieveit.Itwasthestoryhehadwantedtobereal.Theonethatwaseasiertoaccept.Andsomyfatherhadnodded,sniffed,andcreatedanalternaterealitythatwasjusteasierforeveryonetoswallow.Thenheheldontighttohissecret,hislie—nottoprotectme,though,buttoprotectmymother.Himself.
Allofus.
CHAPTERFIFTY-ONE
Istayatthecemeteryuntilthelegsofmyjeansaresoakedthroughwithdamp.ThenIstandup,makemywaybacktothecar,andunlockit,slidingintothedriver’sseat.
Ieyethefolderagain,reachingoutandtouchingtheflap.Mybrokenskinisbandagedoverfromthecutfromthewineglass,andIcanfeelmyheartbeatinmypalm,thumpinghardinmyhand.ThenItakeadeepbreathandpullthefolderontomylap,flippingitopenandscanningthepagesofnotesthatdoctorhadtakenashelistenedtomymothercry.
Herofficialdiagnosiswaspostpartumpsychosis,a“veryrare,severeyettreatableconditionthatcanoccurafterthebirthofababy,”exacerbatedevenfurtherbythetrauma,grief,andisolationfollowingthedeathofsaidbaby.Wordslikedelusionsorstrangebeliefs,inabilitytosleep,andparanoiaandsuspiciousnessleapoutatmefromthepage,brandingthemselvesintomybrain.
Allofithadbeenthere.Allofthesigns,thesymptoms,ifonlysomeonehadcaredenoughtolook.
There’sasenseofreliefknowingthatIwaswrongaboutMargaret—knowingthatitwasn’tmewholedheroutthere,heldherbodydowninthedark—butstill,theuneasinessisn’tgone.It’sjustsomethingnewnow.Somethingdifferent.
Postpartumpsychosisisconsideredaclinicalemergency,Icontinuetoread.Symptomswaxandwane,meaningawomancanbelucidenoughtoholdaconversation,thensufferhallucinationsanddelusionsjusthourslater.Thereisafivepercentsuiciderateandfourpercentinfanticiderateassociatedwiththeillness,andtheriskofdevelopingpostpartumpsychosisishigherinwomenwithahistoryintheirfamily,suchasamotherorsister—
Islapthefoldershutandtossitbackontothepassengerseatbeforeturningoutofthecemeteryandfindingmywaybacktothehighway,lettingmymindwanderasIdrive.Thethoughtmakesmesick:ThatmaybeIdidsomethingtoMasoninthesamewaymymotherdidsomethingtoMargaret.ThatmaybeIreallyhadactedonthosethoughts,peeledmyselffrombedthatnight,andwanderedintohisbedroomthesamewaymymotherhadwanderedintomine.
Ormaybe,justmaybe,Icouldbewrongaboutthis,too.
Itfeelsgoodtoletmyselfbelieveit,ifonlyforasecond:ThatifIdidn’thurtMargaret,thenmaybeIdidn’thurtMason,either.Thatmaybethere’sanotherexplanation,anotherreason,thatabsolvesmeofanyguilt.
IcouldtalktoDr.Harris,perhaps,askhimmoreveiledquestionsinanotherdesperateattemptatanswers.OrIcouldgobacktoPaulHayes’shouseandtrytofigureout,again,whothatoldmanis.Whatheknows.Maybehe’slyingaboutseeingmewalkingaroundatnight,Masonwrappedinmyarms.Maybehe’sjusttryingtoconfuseme,scareme.Getmetostopaskingquestions.Idecideit’sbetterthannothing,becauserightnow,I’mbackatsquareone.Waylonisn’tonmysideanymore—hemadethatperfectlyclearyesterday,sittinginmylivingroom,accusingmeofmurder—whichmeans,onceagain,I’mbacktobeingalone.
Backtotryingtofindmysonwithoutthehelpofthepolice,thepublic.Ben.
ThereissomethingaboutBen,though,that’sbeenticklingatmysubconscious.Somethingaboutourmeetingyesterdaythatfeltfamiliar,thoughIcan’tputmyfingeronwhy.MaybeitwasthesurrealityofstaringatValerieupclose,atfindingmyselfsoswiftlyflippedintotherolethatAllisononceheld—nolongertheotherone,butnow,theoldone.Theonehehaddiscardedforsomethingshinier,better,likeamalfunctioningtoy.Thewayshehadsashayedintothearchway,hertannedskinvisiblebehindthetranslucencyofhisshirt,likeshehadjustrolledoutofbed—hisbed—andgrabbeditfromthefloor,pluckingitfromthespotwherehehadabandoneditthenightbeforeinaferventfrenzyandshruggeditoverhershoulders.
Thewayshehadcalledtohimfromthekitchen,hersingsongyvoicefloatingthroughthehalls.
“Ben?Areyououtthere?Whoisit?”
Andhisresponse,likeaswiftkicktothestomach:“Nobody.”
I’vebeendrivingonautopilot,thesefamiliarroadsofhomeleadingmebacktothecity,butsuddenly,thesceneryaroundmeseemstogetbrighter,sharper.Theedgesmagnifiedwithastartlingclarity,likeI’veingestedsomekindofdrug.
Iknowwhatitis.Iknowwhatwasnaggingatme.Iknowwhatitwasaboutyesterdaythatmademefeelsouneasy.
Itwasthosewords.Valerie’swordshaddislodgedanothermemoryfromsomewheredeepinsideme:theguilt,theshame,ofbeingpushedintothebushesatthememorialasBenpeeledhimselffromme,joggeduptheporchsteps,anddiscardedmelikehiscigarette,stillsmolderinginthegrass.Thefearofholdingmybreathandlettingthebranchesclawatmyhair,cutatmycheeks,likeagnarledhandpressedtightagainstmymouth.Dirtynailsdiggingintomyskin,keepingmequiet.
ThepanicthatswelledinmychestasIwatchedthatmansaunterintothebackyard,handsinhispockets.
“Ben?Areyououtthere?”
Watchinghisshoulderstenseashespottedmyglass,champagnestillfizzing,andthesmudgeoflipstickonthebrimashelifteditup,inspectedit,likehehadfoundsomekindofclue.Ihadn’tseenhisface—Iranbeforehehadthechancetoturnbackaround,facethehouse,andfindmehidingthere—butIheardhim.Iheardhisvoiceloudandclear.ItwasavoiceIdidn’trecognizeatthetime,butnow,Iwouldrecognizeitanywhere.It’savoicethathasbeensoprevalentinmylifefortheselasttwoweeks,eversinceheintroducedhimselfonthatairplane,satacrossfrommeatmydiningroomtable.Rangloudlyinthosegiantheadphonesclampedtightaroundmyears.
ThatmanwasWaylon.
Igripthewheelharder,myfootlikeleadpushingdownonthepedal.Evenafteralltheseyears,IfeelsureofitinawayIhaven’tfeltsureofanything.Allthistime,Waylon’svoicefeltfamiliar.IknewIhadhearditbefore—Iknewit—Ijustcouldn’tfigureoutfromwhere.
Butnow,Iknow.Hewasthere,atthathouse.Thisiswhathe’sbeenhiding.ThisisWaylon’ssecret.Thisiswhathedidn’twantmetoknow.
HeknowsBen.
Ithrowmycarintoparkonthesideoftheroadanddigoutmyphone.DoesBenknowhe’shere?Didhesendhimtomeforsomereason?Toextractinformation,maybe?Anotherwayofkeepingtabs?
Ilaunchanewbrowserandtypehisnameintothesearchengine,myfingersshakingasIpoundatthescreen.Thepagefillswitharticlesaboutthepodcast,interviewswithtruecrimeforums,mentionsoftheGuyRooneycaseandhisinvolvementingettingitsolved.Noneofthisishelpful,sothistime,Irefinemysearch:WaylonSpencerandBenjaminDrake
Whentheresultsload,Ifeelthebreathexitmylungs.
Irememberussittingatdinnertogether,thetensioninmychestasItoldhimaboutBen,ourpast.Aboutwhathappenedtohiswifeandhowherdeathwasourbirth.TheclankofmyforkasIdroppedit,handsshaking,recountingthewayshehaddied.
“Doesn’tanypartofyouthinkthatherdeathwasvery…convenient?”
Thatveryfirstnightinmydiningroomandthelightfromoutsidegrowingdimmerbytheminute.Staringatthatwall,tastingbloodonmytonguefrommytorncuticle.
“Whydoyoudothisforaliving?”Ihadasked,notatallpreparedfortheanswer.
Itwasbecauseofhissister’smurder.
Hissister,Allison.
CHAPTERFIFTY-TWO
Iclickonthefirstarticlethatpopsup:Allison’sobituary.Myeyesflickerovertheblocksoftext,skimmingpastthefuneraldetailsandtherequestsfordonationsinlieuofflowersandthesugarcoateddescriptionofherpassing—vague,innocuouswordslikeunexpectedlyandpeacefullyandinhersleep—untilIhittheverylastline.
Allisonissurvivedbyherhusband,Benjamin,herparents,RobertandRosemary,andheryoungerbrother,Waylon.
Inavigatebacktotheresultsandclickonanotherarticle—aweddingannouncement—andswallowastheheadlineloads:BENJAMINDRAKE&ALLISONSPENCER.There’sapictureofthetwoofthemtogether—thatsameonehehadproudlydisplayedinhisoffice,onthehullofasailboat,hergiant,oval-shapeddiamondreflectingtheglareofthesunabove—anditmakesmystomachsqueeze.Ineverknewhermaidenname;Ihadnevereventhoughttoask.Wenevertalkedabouther.Shewastheonetopicthatwasalwaysoff-limits,beforeandafterourmarriage,likeifwejustignoredherexistenceentirely,itwouldabsolveusbothofanywrongdoing.Anyguilt.
Ihadlearnedthatfrommyparents,Isuppose.
Ican’thelpbutnoticehowperfecttheylooktogetherinthispicture:young,vibrant,happy.Thewayweoncewere,too.
It’snotacommonname,Waylon,butIhavetobesure.Ihavetobeabsolutelypositive.SoIkeepscrolling,skimmingpastquotesfromAllison’sparentsandceremonydetailsuntilIreachafamilypictureattheverybottom—andthereitis.Theretheyare.Allofthem,together.
Ben,Allison,Waylon,theirparents.Onebig,happyfamily.
Idropmyphoneinmylap.Thisconfirmsit:WaylonandAllisonSpencer.They’resiblings.WaylonisAllison’sbrother.Hewasthere,athermemorial,huddledinthatroomthatIrefusedtostepinside.AcceptingcondolencesalongsideBen,hisbrother-in-law.Walkingintothebackyardasweembraced,unknowinglystumblingintosomethingincriminatingandwrong.
“Whathappenedtoher?”Ihadasked,embarrassedattheaspectofmeneveroncewonderingwhatWaylon’sstorywas.Weallhaveone,Isuppose.Astory.Aseriesofeventsthattwistourlivesalongsomeunchartedpath.Asequenceofbirthsanddeaths,beginningsandendings.Loveandloss.Joyandpain.
“That’sthequestion,”hehadsaid.“TheonecaseI’vebeenworkingonsinceIwastwenty-threeyearsold.”
ExceptAllison’sdeathwasn’tamystery.Itwasn’tsomecoldcasethatgarnerednationalattention;herparentsweren’tatTrueCrimeCon,sellingtheirsoulsforeyes.Itwasadismallydrabdeath,thewaymostofthemactuallyare.Allisonoverdosed.Theyfoundthepillsinherstomach,theemptyprescriptionbottleinherlimp,lifelesshand.Hernameonthelabel.Benhadfoundherlikethat,sprawledacrossthebathroomfloorwithsaucersforpupilsandblue-grayskin.
Atleast,that’swhathesaid.
IpickmyphoneupagainanddialWaylon’snumber,toojitterytocareaboutthewayweleftthings.MaybeIhadmisunderstoodwhathewassaying.Maybe—afterseeingmyselfonthatlaptopscreen,aftertalkingtothatmanontheporch,afteruncoveringthesimilaritiesbetweenMargaret’sdeathandMason’sdisappearanceandplantingmyselfatthecenterofthemboth—maybeIhadonlyheardwhatIhadwantedtohear.
“Nobodybrokeintoyourhouse,Isabelle.Iknowit,youknowit,thecopsknowit.Therewasnointruder.”
MaybeIhadalreadycometomyownconclusionatthatpoint:ThatIwasresponsible.ThatIdidsomethingwrong,somethingterrible.SomethingIcouldn’tremember.ButjustlikewithMargaret,maybeIwaswrong.JustlikewithMargaret,maybeIwasn’tsearchingforanswers,notreally.MaybeIalreadyhadmyanswers—thatIwastoblame—andIwasjustsearchingforproof.
AnyscrapofproofthatconfirmedwhatIalreadybelieved:ThatIwasabadmother.ThatIfailedmyson,justlikeIhadfailedmysister.
“Isabelle?”
Waylonanswersslowly,curiously,likehe’swonderingifIreallymeanttocall.LikehethinksIdialedthewrongnumberandhe’safraidtohearmyvoiceontheothersideoftheline.Iglanceattheclockinmycar—it’sstillearly,wellbeforerushhour—andrealizethatImighthavewokenhimup.
“Waylon,”Isay,tryingtocalmthetremorinmythroat.“Whatyousaidtomeyesterday—”
“Iknow,I’msorry,”heinterrupts,hisvoicebreathyandhoarse.Ipicturehimlyinginacoldmotelroom,bed-headhairstickingoutinalldirectionsashefumblesforthelampinthedark.“Ifeelterribleaboutit.Iwastooharsh—”
“DoyouthinkIhurtMason?”Icuthimoff.“DoyouthinkIkilledmyson?”
“What?”Thesharpintakeofair,thechangeintone,tellsmeeverythingIneedtoknow.It’slikemywordswereabucketoficewaterthrownacrosshisface,startlinghimawake.“Isabelle,no.Whywouldyouthinkthat?”
Iexhale,reliefflowingthroughme.
“Iknowwhoyouare,”Isay.“You’reAllison’sbrother.AllisonSpencer.AllisonDrake.”
Thelineissilent.Icanhearhimbreathing,thinking,wonderingwhattosaynext.
“I’mnotmad,”Icontinue.“Ijust…Ineedtoknowwhatyou’redoinghere.AndwhatyouthinkyouknowaboutBen.”
TherehasalwaysbeenchatteraboutBen,Isuppose,thesamewaytherehasalwaysbeenchatteraboutme.Theparentsarethetwomostlogicalsuspects,afterall,butIhadalwaysdismissedit.AlwayssidedsostronglywithBen.Wehadbeentogether.Wehadbeenasleeptheentirenight,limbsliketentaclesintertwinedinthesheets.
Butthenagain,Waylonhadaskedaboutthat,too.
“Soyourhusbandcouldhavegottenupandyouwouldn’thavenoticed?”
IrememberMargaretslidingherlittlebodybeneaththedeadweightofmyarm.Me,wakingupinthemorningwithoutanymemoryofherarrival.Withoutaclueastowhathadhappenedinthenight.Beforetheinsomnia,Iwasalwayssuchaheavysleeper…sohowdoIreallyknowthathewasthereallalong?HowdoIreallyknowthathedidn’tgetup,slipoutfrombeneaththecovers,anddosomethinginthenight?Somethinghe’skeepingfromme?
Maybesomepartofmehadalwayswondered,thewayIsodesperatelyhopedthatourstoriesaligned.ThewayIhadstrainedtohearwhathewassayingontheothersideofthatwallbeinginterrogatedonhisown,liketherewassomeflickerofdistrustbetweenusthatIneverwantedtoacknowledge.ThewayIneveraskedaboutAllison—aboutwhathappenedtoher,whathethoughtaboutitall,likeIdidn’tevenwanttoknow.
Maybe,somewheredeepintherecessesofmymind—thesameplacewhereIhadexiledthosethoughtsaboutMasonandthosememoriesofmychildhood,mymother,Eloise;theonesthathurttothinkaboutandwereeasiertojustignore,orevenbetter,recreateintosomethingaltogetherdifferent,moldingthemlikeputtyinmyhandsuntiltheylookedthewayIwantedthemto—maybe,Ihadthoughtitthen:theconvenienceofherdeath,theunansweredquestions.Theeasyliesheconstructed,jumpingsoquicklyfromhertome.
“It’snotwhatIthinkIknow,”Waylonsaysatlast,hisvoicemeasuredandcalm.“It’swhatIdoknow.Hewasmybrother-in-lawfortenyears,Isabelle.Iknowhimbetterthananybody.”
“Hewasmyhusbandforseven,”Irespond.“IthinkIknowhimprettywell,too.”
“That’swhatAllisonthought.”
Ihesitate,drummingmyfingersagainstthesteeringwheel.Forthefirsttime,ItrytoputmyselfinAllison’sshoes.Itrytomakemyselfimagineit:howitwouldfeelifBendidtomewhathedidtoher.Whatwedidtoher.Ifheliedabouthiswhereabouts,spenthoursonendwithanotherwomanatsomedimlylitbar,lookingatherthewayhehadoncelookedatme:chintuckedlow,anintensityinhiseyes.Aplayfulgrintuggingathislip,likehewasimaginingthetwoofustogetherinsomeother,privateplace.Ifhetextedherlateatnight,afterIwasasleep,ournakedbodiespressedtogetherbutintwoentirelydifferentplaces.IfIwokeupinthemorningandclimbedontopofhim,oblivioustothefactthathewaspicturingherinsteadofme.
Inthislight,itactuallyseemsworsethancheating.It’smorecalculated,morecunning.Moremanipulative.
“So,what?”Iask.“Youactuallythinkhekilledher?Youactuallythinkhe’scapableofmurder?”
“Isabelle,”heresponds,hisvoiceclinicalandcold,asifhe’sdeliveringadiagnosisthatheknowswillbetheendofme,“Iknowhekilledher.”
CHAPTERFIFTY-THREE
MasonwassixmonthsoldwhenIapproachedBenaboutworkingagain.
Ineverconsciouslystoppedworking,really,itjustseemedtohappenwithoutmeevenrealizing.Bentookthenewsofmypregnancywell—hewassurprisedbutexcited,thewayIsaidIwas,too—butstill,hewasbusy.Theworknevereasedup,hisscheduleneverthinned,soitwasmyidentitythathadtoshift,aslow,gradual,seeminglyinevitableprogression,likeaging,thatIdidn’treallynoticewashappeninguntilIwokeuponemorning,lookedinthemirror,andhardlyrecognizedthefacestaringback.
Ihadtiptoedfromwritertofreelancewritertoworkingmotherto,atlast,justmother.AndIlovedMason—Ilovedbeinghismother.Ilovedspendingmydaysbelly-downonthecarpet,readinghimstoriesorwatchinghimsquirmaroundonthefloor.Ilovedwatchinghimlearnhowtoflipover,holduphishead.Theaweinhiseyesasheopenedthemwideranddiscoveredtheworldaroundhim.Thatinitialfeelingofregretwasgone,andIdidcometoseeitasmysecondchance,reminiscentofMargaret,gettingtotakecareofhimthewayIoncetookcareofher.
Itwasstartingtogeteasier,motherhood—oratleast,moremanageable—butstill,somethingwasmissing.
IoftenthoughtofthatpassionIhadasachild:myfingersdancingoverthatplaqueinouryard,myeyestearingthroughmagazines,drinkingupwords,asfastasIcould.Sometimes,IwoulddigupoldissuesofTheGritandflipthroughthepages,eyingmybyline,rereadingmyownwordslikeIwasdredgingupthelastdropsofsomethingdeliciousthroughastrawbeforeIhitthebone-drybottom.IcouldalmosthearthefranticslurpingofmetryingtogetonelasttasteofthepersonIusedtobebeforeitdriedupforever.
Idecided,beforebringingitup,thatIwouldseewhatwasouttherefirst.Besides,maybeIdidn’thaveitinmeanymore.IthadbeenalmostayearsinceIwroteanything,soIscouredthroughmyoldcontacts,grazedthemostrecentarticlesofsomeofmyfavoritemagazines.IspentMason’smidnightfeedingsflippingthroughsocialmedia,myphonealightinthedark,andfinallycameacrossanarticleaboutaboiled-peanutsalesmaninNorthCarolinawhohadrecentlylosthisentireoperationafterapropanetankexplodedinhisbackyard.Itwascoveredonsomesmalllocalnewsstation—hehadlostovertenthousanddollars’worthofequipment—andIcouldjustimaginethepiece,somethingbigger:afeatureonhisfamily,whohadbeeninthelittle-knownindustryfordecades;abehind-the-scenestourofhisbackyardbusinessthatwentupinflames.Thehistoryofthefood,itsoverlookedorigins,maybeevenafundraisersetuptohelphimgetbackonhisfeet.ItwouldbelikethestoriesIwroteforTheGrit,thestoriesIloved:meaningfulandmuddyandreal.
Ipitchedtheideatoaregionalmagazine,theylovedit,andtheyofferedmethreethousanddollars,plustravel,togetitdone.
“That’smorethanI’veevermadedoingfreelance,”IhadsaidafterIexplainedtheideatoBen.IhadbeensittingonthebedwithMason,bouncinghimonmyleg,asBenstrippedoffhistieafterwork.“Withthatkindofmoneyperstory,Icouldmakearealcareeroutofthis—”
“Wedon’tneedmoney,”hehadsaid.“Youknowthat.”
“Well,it’snotjustthemoney—”
“Howlongwouldyoubeaway?”Hisexpressionwasblank,unreadable.Masonwasgettingsquirmy,andasifitprovedhispoint,Bengesturedtohim.“He’sstillsoyoung.”
“Aweek,tops,”Ihadsaid,movinghimfromonekneetotheother.“Maybeonlyacoupledays.Ithinkyoucanhandleit.”
Ihadsmirked,teasinghim,buthedidn’tsmileback.
“OrIcouldjustgoeverymorningandcomebackatnight,butthatwouldbealotofdriving—”
“No,”hesaid,unbuttoninghiscollarandflexinghisneck.“No,youshoulddoit.Ifthat’swhatwillmakeyouhappy.”
“Iamhappy,”Isaid.“Ijust…IguessIjustneedsomethingformyself,too.Youhavethemagazine—”
Istopped,feltmycheeksstarttoburn.WehaddancedaroundTheGritjustlikewehaddancedaroundAllison:besttopretenditdidn’texist.BesttobelievethatIhadleftofmyownvolition,eventhoughsometimes,whenIthoughtaboutBenstillreportingtothatbig,beautifulofficeeachmorning—walkingpastmyolddesk,somebodyelse’sbodyinmychairandbylinesonthewall;sharingcoffeewithmyoldcoworkers,myfriends—Ifeltanoverwhelmingtwingeofsadness.LikeadeathIhadneverfullymourned.
“Youshoulddoit,”herepeated,walkingovertome.Ismiled,stretchedoutmyneck,andgavehimmylipstokiss—butinsteadofgreetingthemwithhisown,hegrabbedMason,tookhimfromme,andturnedbackaround,disappearingintothehall.“LikeIsaid.Whatevermakesyouhappy.”
CHAPTERFIFTY-FOUR
IpullintoameteredspotonRiverStreetandwalkthefewblockstoTheBean,ahole-in-the-wallcoffeespotIknowBenwouldnevervisit.It’stoogrungyforhim,thekindofplacewhereyoupouryourowncreamerwhenit’sstillinthecarton,sweatinginthecorneralongsidefossilizedpacketsofsweetenerandmismatchedspoons.Waylonhadn’tlefttownyet—hegotahotelroomyesterday,afterIkickedhimout,tooshell-shockedfromourconfrontationtomakethedrivehome—andwhenIstepinside,he’salreadythere,waitingforme
“Hey,”Isay,droppingmypurseontotheemptystool.There’sanawkwardnesstoourinteraction,likereconcilingexes,butItrytopushthroughit.“I’mjustgonna—”
Igesturetothebar,butheshakeshishead,pushingamuginmydirectionlikeapeaceoffering.
“Thisone’sforyou.”
“Thanks.”Ismile,slidingintotheseat.Igrabthecoffeeandtakeasip.
“I’msorryIliedtoyou,”hesays,hisfingersbouncingacrossthetable.“OrIguessamoreaccuratewayofstatingitiswillfullyomittingthetruth.Eitherway,itwasshitty.”
Ismileagain,nodmyhead,andthinkaboutthestrangelittlebowhehadgreetedmewithwhenhefirststeppedfootintomyhome.Thewayhiseyeshadscannedaroundtheroom,lookingfortracesofBen,andhowhehadduckeddownlowatFramboise,tryingtomakehimselfsmaller.Hemusthavebeenterrified,Irealize,steppingintothosesituationsandnotknowingwhathewouldfind.IfBenhadbeentherewithme,hiscoverwouldbedestroyed.
“So,”Isay,drummingmyfingersagainstthemug,“whereshouldwestart?”
“Fromthebeginning,Iguess.”Waylonexhales,rollinghisnecklikehe’spreparingforsomekindoffight.“AllisonandBenmetinhighschool.Hewasafewyearsolderthanher,andIthinkshelikedthat—theattentionofanolderguy.Howitmadeherfeelolderherself.”
IpictureBenasateenager,roamingthehighschoolhallsthesamewayheroamedaroundtheofficeoruponthatrooftop:withpurposeandpoise.Hewaspopular,I’msure.Lettermanjacketsandpocketsoffriendsflankinghimoneitherside.IpicturehimcatchingAllison’seyeatherlocker,shootingherawinkandagrin.Thewaysheprobablylookedaroundbeforemouthing:“Me?”Likeshecouldn’tpossiblybelievethathisattentionwasdirectedather.
“Icanrelatetothat.”
“Heeventuallywentawayforcollegebutcamebackeveryweekendtoseeher,”hesays.“Heproposedprettymuchassoonassheturnedtwenty,gotmarriedwhenshewastwenty-one.Sheneverdatedanyoneelse.Myparentslovedhim.”
“Andyoudidn’t?”
“Imean…”Heshrugs.“Iwasakidwhenwemet.Heusedtosuckuptomeinthatboyfriendkindofway,butIalwaysfeltlikeIsawthroughhim.Likehiswholeperfectpersonpersonawasanact.”
Benwasalwaysgoodatmakinghimselfthemostwell-likedpersonintheroom—thewayhealwaysknewjustwhattosayandwhentosayit,moseyingthroughacrowdwithaneasyconfidenceandperfectlyplacedhandthatseemedtopullpeopletowardhimlikegravity.Kidsdon’tfallforthatkindofthing,though.Theyalwaysseemtosensesomethingtherestofuscan’t.
“Anyway,Allisonwasalwayssuchavibrantperson.Shelovedtoargue.”Hesmiles.“Shewantedtobealawyer.”
“Ididn’tknowthat.”
“Oh,yeah,andshewouldhavebeengreatatit,too,butshefollowedhimtocollege—abigjournalismschool,becausethat’swhathewanted—andbythetimeshegraduated,Benhadtalkedheroutofit.Lawschoolwasexpensive;hewasafewyearsinathisjobandhadfinallysavedenoughforthemtostartenjoyingit.Itwaslikeshejustshrunkherselfdowntomakemoreroomforhim.”
Ifeelthefamiliarstingoftearsinmyeyes.Icanrelatetothat,too.ThewayIhadjustifieditatthetime,asifmyleavingTheGritandmylifeslowlydwindlingdowntonothingwasn’thischoice,butours.IremembergossipingaboutAllisonthatnightoftheparty,Kasey’schampagnebreathinmyear.Judgingherforbeingunemployed,stayingathome.Herbodyglidingnexttohislikeanoversizedaccessory,unawareofthefactthatshehadapassionworthpursuing.Somethingshewasgoodat,somethingsheloved.
Justlikeme.
“Itjustsuckedtowatch,”Wayloncontinues.“Butitwasn’tlikehewasallbad.Icouldn’tpointtoanythinginherentlywrongabouttheirrelationship.ItseemedlikehetreatedherwellwhenIsawthemtogether.Hemadeherlaugh.Ifiguredthatifhemadeherhappy…Idon’tknow.Ishouldjuststayoutofit.”
“Relationshipsarecomplicated,”Isay,blowingonmycoffeetogivemyselfsomethingtodo.
“Yeah,butthat’sthething,”hesays,shiftinginhischair.“Iwasninewhenwemet.AllisonandIweresevenyearsapart,soIdidn’tknowwhatahealthyrelationshiplookedlike.ButasIgotolder—aswebothgotolder—BenandIstartedgrowingintotwocompletelydifferentkindsofguys.AndIrealizedthatwhateverahealthyrelationshipwas…thatwasn’tit.”
I’mquiet.IdecidetoletWaylonkeeptalking,lethimtellmewhatheknows,beforeIchimeinagain.
“Anyway,theyearswentby,andAllisonkeptshrinking.Shetriedtotalktohimafewtimesaboutgoingtolawschool,gettingherownthinggoing,andhewouldguilttripheroutofiteverysingletime.Itwaslikeshewasjustthisthingmeanttocheckaboxinhisownlifeandnotevenliveherown.”
Irememberthatnight,whenIhaddecidedtogobacktowork.ThetouchofuneaseasIhadbroughtitup,likeIknewIwasflirtingwithfire.ThewayBenhadtakenMasonfrommeafterward,likeapunishment.Awarningofwhatwastocome.
“Whatevermakesyouhappy.”
Ididitanyway.IwenttoNorthCarolina,Iwrotethestory.Istartedworkingagain,part-time,travelingonceortwiceamonth.ItignitedasparkinmethatIknewIneeded—IknewIcouldn’tbeagoodperson,agoodmother,withoutfirstbeinggoodtomyself—butnowIwonderifithadignitedsomethinginBen,too.Somethingdangerous.Ihadmadehimafatherwhenheneverwantedtobeoneinthefirstplace,andthenIstartedleavinghimalonewithMasonfordaysatatime.Itwasasifallthosesmalllittleactsofdefiancehadlitsomekindoffuse,andwehadbeeninchingcloserandclosertowardtheexplosionwithoutmeevenrealizing.
“Onenight,Iwasintownvisitingfamily,”hecontinues.“Idecidedtogointothecityforadrink,soIwalkedintothisbarandsawBensittingtherebyhimself.Itwaslate,acouplehoursafterheshouldhavebeendonewithwork.IfiguredAllisonwastherewithhim,maybeinthebathroomorsomething,butjustasIwaswalkingovertosayhi,anotherwomansatdownnexttohim.”
Ifeeltheheatcrawlupmyneck.Ialreadyknowwherethisisgoing.Allofthoselatenightstogether,nursingdrinksforlongerthannecessarybecauseneitheroneofuswantedtowalkaway.Waylonislookingatmenowlikehe’sseeingmeagainfortheveryfirsttime.Likehe’srememberingthewayIhadsaunteredbacktothattable,myfingersgrazingBen’sshoulders,touchingthebareskinofhisneckandpretendingitwasanaccident.ThewayIwouldwillfullyignorehislefthand,thegoldbandhewouldalwaysfidgetwith,spinningitaroundhisfinger,likeifheworeitdownenough,itmightjustdissolve.Disappearonitsown.
“Itwasyou.”
“Waylon,I’msorry.”Ipushmyhandsintomyneck,tryingtocoolitdown,butthewarmthfromthecoffeeonlymakesitworse.Icanfeelmycheeksburning,physicalproofoftheshameIfeelradiatingoutfrommyeverypore.“Ipromiseyou,though,wedidn’tdoanything.Nothinghappened—”
“It’snotthat,”heinterrupts,wavinghishand.“Iwatchedyou,though,fortheentirenight.Iwatchedyouinteracting.AndhetreatedyoutheexactsamewayhetreatedAllison—thewayhetouchedyourarm,thewayheleanedoverhisbeerwhenyouweretalking.Icouldtellhemadeyoufeelspecial,justlikehowhemadeherfeel.Itwaslikeyouwereinterchangeabletohim.Youevenlookedthesame.”
Iglanceacrossthecafé,tryingtofindsomethingtofixmygazeontokeepmyselffromcrying.IrememberthatpictureIhadseenonWaylon’scomputernow—BenandI,sittingcloseatthatbar,caughtoncameraunaware.
Ihaveneverfeltmorenaive,morefoolish,thanIdorightnow.
Irememberthinkingthatweweredifferent—BenandI,weweredifferentfromthem—butthat’sjustnottrue.Wewerethesame.AllisonandIwerethesametohim.Interchangeable.
“There’snowayyoucouldhaveknown,”Waylonsaysnow,readingmymindagain.Hereachesacrossthetableandtouchesmyhand.“It’snotyourfault.”
“Itis,though,”Isay.“Iknewhewasmarried—”
“Youwereyoung,”hesays.“Youcan’thelpthewaysomeonemakesyoufeel.Andhe’sgood,Isabelle.Hemakeseveryonefeellikethat.”
“So,whathappenednext?”Iask,althoughI’mbecomingincreasinglyconfidentthatIdon’tactuallywanttoknow.Waylon’sexpressionconfirmsit:thewayhisshoulderstense,hislowerlipquiversbeforehebitesit,hard.Iwatchashiseyesgrowdampanddistant,andhepullshishandfrommine,wipingthemangrily,beforereturninghisfocusonme.
“Shegotpregnant,”hesaysatlast.“Andthenacoupleofweekslater,shedied.”
CHAPTERFIFTY-FIVE
Icanstillfeelit:thestickofthetileagainstmythighs.ThesweatonmyfingertipsasIgrippedthetoilet,andthevomitinmyhair,tanglingthestrandstogetherlikegum.MybackagainstthewallasIsatonthebathroomfloor,alone,staringasthosetwopinklinesappearedinmyhand.Theywerefaintenoughtomakemequestionit—Iremembertiltingmyhead,squinting,likeitwassomekindofmiragethatmightdisappearwithjusttherightangle—butIknew,inmygut,thattheywerethere.Thatthiswasreal.
Andthenthatsingle,fleetingsecondofregret.
Thetruthwas,nothingaboutourlifehadpannedoutthewayIthoughtitwould.BenandIweren’tthesamepeoplewewerewhenwe’dmet—atleast,Iwasn’t.Notanymore.Makingababytogetherhadfeltlikeafinalattemptatmakingitwork,alast-ditchefforttoturnitallaround,andwhileIknownowhowcrazythatsounds,findingyourlifeunravelinglikethatmakesyoufeelprettydesperatetoweaveitintosomethingbeautifulandwholebeforeitdisappearsaltogetherandleavesyouwithnothing.
Afterall,Ihadgivenupsomuchforhim.Losinghim,too,wouldhavefeltlikelosingeverything.
Butsittingthereonthetilewiththattestinmyhandmadeittrulysinkin:therealityofwhatIhaddone.TherealityofforeverwithBen—ofanotherhumanbeingtyingustogetherforeternity.Thepossibilitythatitmightnotchangethingsforthebetter—andinfact,itmightmakeitallworse.Thosewerethethoughtsracingthroughmymindduringthatsinglesecond,andIwondernowifthat’showAllisonfeltwhenshefoundout,too:trapped.Trappedinherhouse,inhermarriage,andnow,inherownbody.Thatone,finalthingthatwassnatchedawayfromherandclaimedbysomebodyelse.
Ormaybeshewaselated.Maybeshethoughtitwouldbeafreshstart.Maybeshepusheddownthebadthoughtslikeanotherboutofnausea,swallowingtheirputridtasteandplasteringonasmile.Hopingthattheirproblemsmightfinallybesolved.
“Allisonneverwouldhaveoverdosedpregnant,”Waylonsaysnow,eyesquivering.“Sheneverwouldhavedonethat.”
“Areyousuresheknew?”Iask.“Nobodyattheofficeknew.”
“Sheknew.Shetoldus.Itwasreallyearly,butshewasthemostopenpersonontheplanet.Shecouldneverkeepasecret.”
Irememberherhandonmyarm,herlipsonmyear.Thewhipofthewindonthatrooftopandthecombinationofallthreemakingmyskincrawllikesomethinghadburrowedbeneathit.
“Tobequitehonest,thisdresssqueezesmeinallthewrongplaces.”
Irememberhowshehadbeencarryingaflutearoundtherooftop,butherbreathsmelledlikemouthwashinsteadofchampagne;howherfingersrestedgentlyonherstomach,asifshewantedmetoknow.Shewantedsomeonetoknow.
“Waylon,Ihatetosaythis…”Itrailoff,wonderinghowtowordthisdelicately.“Shewasclearlystruggling,maybeunabletothinkstraight—”
“Shewouldn’thavedoneit,Isabelle.”
Ipinchmylips,nod,andthinkofmymother.Ithinkofhowshewouldn’thavedonewhatshedid,either.Notifsomebodyhadbeentheretohelp.Notifsomebodyhadlistened.Nobodyunderstandswhatit’sliketobelockedinsidethemindofamother:thethingsyouthinkthatyouaren’tsupposedto;thebeliefsthatburrowthemselvesdeepintoyourbrainlikeaparasite,makingyousick.
Butatthesametime,Ican’thelpbutwonder.
Allthoseyears,IthoughtAllison’sdeathhadsavedBenfrommakingachoice—achoicebetweenustwo—butnowIrealizesomethingthatshouldhavebeenobvious:SincewhendidBeneversitbackandletlifehappentohim?Sincewhenwasheevernotincontrol?Bendidn’tdothat.Heneverleftthingstochance;heneverplayedapassiveroleinhisownlife,thewayheexpectedusto.Somaybehewasmakingachoice—maybe,intheend,hischoicewasgoingtobeme.ButthenAllisonhadcalledhimintothebathroomoneday,thesamewayItriedtofiveyearslater.Shehadshowedhimthetestandwrappedherarmsaroundhisneck,squeezing,andhe’dhadtherealizationthathewasstuck,too.
Thatthechoicehadbeenmadeforhim,anditwasn’ttheonehewanted.
“Hewasdonewithher,Isabelle.Shewasn’tthesamegirlshewaswhenheproposed—andhowcouldheexpecthertobe?Hehadtakeneverythingfromherthatmadeherher.”
Irememberthewayhehadlookedatmethatnightontheroof,hisheadbentlow.Hiswifewaspregnant,heknewshewaspregnant,andstill,hediditanyway.Nowallthosemomentswespenttogetherwhenshewashomealonesuddenlylooksodifferent,likepeelingbackexpensivewallpaperandfindingblackmoldunderneath.
“Atthememorial,IsnuckawayintoAllison’sbedroomonthesecondfloor,justtogetabreath,”hecontinues.“Togetawayfromitall.Ilookedoutthewindowandthat’swhenIsawyoutwotangledtogetheronthesideofthehouse.Athermemorial.”
Icanfeelthehumiliationleakthroughmyveinslikesomeoneinjectedmewithit.Theslowcrawl,likevenom,frommytoestomylegs,mystomach,mychest.MyfaceburnsasIimaginetheshock,therage;Waylon’shandsgrippingthewindowsillashewatchedusdefilehissister’smemoryinherownhome.Flinginghisbodydownthestairs,outthedoor,intentionallymakingusstop.
“Andthat’swhenIknewit,”hesays.“Seeingyoutwotogetheratthebar,thenagainatthememorial.Hefuckingkilledher.”
“Waylon,I’msosorry—”Istart,pushingmyfingerssohardintomymugthatIcanfeeltheskinburning:asharp,hotsinge.
“I’mnotaskingyoutoapologize,”hesays,shakinghishead.“That’snotwhyI’mhere.”
“Thenwhyareyouhere?”
“BecauseIwanthimtopay.Therewasn’tenoughevidencewithAllison,butwhenIheardaboutMasongoingmissing,Iknewit.Iknewhediditagain.”
IthinkaboutthecasefileinWaylon’sbriefcase.Theinterviewrecordingshehadbeenlisteningtoandallthosepicturesofme,ofus,hiddenonhislaptop.
Hewasn’tlookingintome.HewaslookingintoBen.
“Whataboutthearticle?”Iask,rememberingtheotherthingIhadfoundthere.“TheoneaboutMargaretonyourlaptop.ThathadnothingtodowithBen—”
“Iwascurious,”headmits,lookingashamednow,too.“I’veknownaboutyouforyears,eversinceIsawyouthatnightatthebar,butIdidn’tactuallyknowyou.IknewBenmarriedyouandhadakidwithyou,butIwastryingtounderstandyoualittlebetter.TryingtoseeifyouweresomeoneIcouldtrust,ifIcouldtellyouwhoIwasandwhatIthoughtaboutBen.ButeverytimeIaskedaboutyourpast,youclammedup.”
IthinkabouthimnudgingmealongatFramboiseorinmydiningroom,alwayspepperinginthosepersonalquestionsthatIshutdownsofast.
“AfteryoutoldmeyourmaidennamewasRhett,IGoogledyouandfoundthearticle.”Heshrugs.“I’msorry.Ididn’tmeantopry.”
Inod,tappingmynailsagainstmymug,thinking.There’sstillonething,though,thatdoesn’taddup.OnethingIcan’tbringmyselftoaccept.
“WhywouldhehurtMason?”Iaskatlast.“Sure,maybehedidn’twanttobewithmeanymore…butwhyhim?Whyourson?Hedidn’tdoanythingwrong.”
“HowdoyouthinkitwouldlookifBenhadtwowivescommitsuicide?”Waylonasks,eyebrowsraised.“Hardertogetawaywith,Ithink.Besides,doyoureallythinkhewantedtobeasingledad?”
Ithinkabouttheclenchinhisjawashethoughtaboutmeleaving,working,theburdenofparenthoodplacedsolelyonhisshouldersforonlyamatterofdays.IthinkabouthowquicklythingshaddissolvedbetweenusafterMasondisappeared—howIhadwantedtoworkonourmarriage,onus—buthehaddecidedalmostimmediatelythatitwasover,almostasifhisdecisionhadbeenmadelongbeforethatpoint.
“No,”Isayatlast.“No,hewouldn’twantthat.”
Benneverwantedtobeafather.HeneverwantedMason.Iknewthatgoingintoit,ofcourse,butlotsofpeoplehaveachangeofheartwhenitcomestoparenthood—IknowIdid,thattwingeofregretevaporatingcompletelythemomentIlookedintothosebrightgreeneyes.Benwasalovingfatheronthesurfaceofit,butstill,Ihadcorneredhimintoalifeheneverwanted.
Hewasn’tusedtonotgettinghisway.
“Right,”Waylonsays,leaningback.“Ijustthoughtthatbycominghere—bytalkingtoyou,gettinginsideyourhouse,yourhead—Imightbeabletofigureitout.Finallyfindenoughevidencetoputthatassholeawayandstophimfromhurtinganyoneelse.”
Idon’twanttobelieveit,butatthesametime,itmakessense.Nobodybrokeintoourhouse.Theevidencejustisn’tthere.ButBenwouldhaveknownthatthebatteryinthebabymonitorwasdead.BenwouldhavebeenabletowalkintothenurserywithoutwakingupRoscoeormakingMasoncry.Benwouldhavebeenabletoopenthewindowfromtheinside,trytostageanintrusion,beforewalkingoutthefrontdoorwithoutleavinganyprints.
Benwouldhavebeenabletocomehomeafter,slideunderthecovers,andwindhisarmsaroundmywaist,pushinghimselfclose.Pretendingthathehadbeenthereallalong.Therealizationmakesmesick,andthat’swhenItasteitagain:metallic,likeblood,thickandstickyanddrippingovereverything.
Burningmythroat,paintingmytongue.Coatingeverythinginred.
CHAPTERFIFTY-SIX
Isitinmycar,idling,theexhaustbillowingoutasIslumpdowninthedriver’sseatandstareathisblind-drawnwindows.Iblinkafewtimes,tryingtofightoffthesuddenheavinessofmyeyelids,andimaginewhathe’sdoingrightnow,withoutme,thewayIhavesomanytimesbefore.
Whatthey’redoing.
It’sstillearly,aboutthirtyminutesbeforetheofficeopens,andshe’sthere.Iknowsheis.Isawtwosilhouettesoutlinedagainsthisbedroomcurtainsearlier,pushedtogetherbeforepeelingapart.Onelong,slenderarmgrabbingathiswaist,likeshewasn’tquitereadyforhimtoleave.They’reprobablyeatingbreakfastrightnow,sippingtheirFrench-pressedcoffeeinsilence,hishandonherthighasheskimsthenews—thesamewayhehadhandledAllison,histouchbarelythereashepushedthesmallofherbackaroundtherestaurant,likeshewasapossessionhedidn’twanttomisplace.
Iglanceattheclocknow—heshouldbeleavingsoon—andasifoncue,thefrontdoorswingsopen.Afterallthistime,Istillknowhisroutinebyheart.IwatchBenstepout,briefcaseinhand,asValerieappearsontheporchstepsbehindhim.It’sstillstrange,seeingthemtogether.Watchingmyhusbandengageintheseeasyinteractionswithanotherwoman,almostasifI’mlookingatmyownlifethroughafun-housemirror:onethatdistortsmyfeatures,turningmeintosomebodyelse.She’sinhisslippersandanoversizedT-shirt,herhairaperfectmess,andittakesmeasecondtorecoverfromhoweffortlesslysheseemstofitintohisclothes,hislife
Howeasyitisforhertoslipintomyskinandtakemyplace.
BackwhenIfoundoutabouther,therewasacertainbitternessinmymouthwhenIthoughtaboutValerie—itwaslikesuckingonalemonandfeelingthatpinchinmyjaw,makingmewince—butnowIrealizethatmakesmeahypocrite.She’skindandcompassionate—she’sme,eightyearsago—andIcan’thelpbutwonderwhatwouldhavehappenedifsomeonehadwarnedmethenaboutwhoBenwas,whathewascapableof,beforeIhadgottentooinvolved.Ifsomeonehadexplainedtomethewaymenlikethatwork:howwe’rejustpawnsintheirgame,theirgentlehandssteeringusinthedirectionthat’smostbeneficialforthem
Usingus,sacrificingus,astrategicpowerplaymaskedasromance.
Iwonderifitwouldhavemadeadifference,ifIwouldhavelistened,orifIwouldhavejustshruggedthemoffandcontinuedonwithmylife.
Probablythelatter,butIhavetotry.
IslouchlowerasBenhopsdownthestepsandtakesaright,headingtowardtheoffice,andstayreclinedforanotherfewminutes,makingsurehedoesn’tcomeback.Finally,afterstealingonelastlookintherearview,Idigmyhandintomypurseandpulloutmyeyedrops,givingmyselfonemoreconvincingkickoflifebeforeturningofftheignitionandunlockingthedoor.
I’mabouttostepout,myfoothoveringovertheconcrete,butalmostimmediately,IseeValerieontheporchagainandIslamthedoorshut.Herearlieroutfithasbeenreplacedwithashirtdressandsandals,andIwatchasshelocksthefrontdoor,skipsdownthesteps,andslidesherselfinsidethecarparkedjustafewfeetfrommine.
BeforeIcanthinktwice,Icrankmyowncar,fastenmyseatbelt,andfollowasshepullsoutofthespaceanddrivesdowntheroad.ThenItailheratadistanceuntilshepullsintoalittleresidentialneighborhoodontheoppositesideoftown.
Thismustbeherhouse,IthinkasIwatchhereaseintoastreetspotandletherselfintoalittlewhitecottage.Itremindsmeofmyfirstapartment,howchildishitseemedwhenIcamehomeafteranightwithBen.Myinexperienceamplifiedafterbeinginthepresenceofsomeoneolder,moresuccessful.Moremature.Valerie’shomehastheappearanceofsomeonewhotries—there’sawrought-ironrockerontheporch,afewspindlyplantsinplasticpotters,apollen-cakedrugthat’sbleachedfromthesun—butalsosomeonewhoclearlythriftsforfurnitureorpicksupdiscardedcouchesonthesideoftheroad,reupholsteringthemtohidethestains.Irememberbeingherage,tryingtostitchtogetheralifefromscraps.Iwonderifshe’severbroughtBenhere.Iwonderifshefeltembarrassed,thewayIdid,asIwatchedhimtakeinmyIkeadeskandmismatchedchairsandplasticsilverwarewashedandsavedfromtakeoutbags,histeethgnawingathisliptellingmeeverythingIneededtoknow.
Istepoutofmycarandwalkacrossthestreet,approachingherhome.ThenItakeadeepbreath,climbthestairs,andknocktwicebeforeIcanchangemymind.Thedoorswingsopenalmostimmediately,andIregistertheshockonherfacewhensheseesmestandingthere,myarmsdanglingawkwardlybymysides.
“Isabelle,”shesays,tryingtomaskthesurpriseinhervoice.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”
“Iwaswonderingifwecouldtalk.Justforacoupleminutes.”
“HowdoyouknowwhereIlive?”
I’mquiet,tryingtodecidehowtoanswerthat.BecauseIfollowedyouheredoesn’tsoundlikethebestwaytoconvincehertoletmein,soinstead,Ikeeptalking.
“Therearesomethingsyoushouldknow,”Isay.“ThingsaboutBen.”
“I’m…I’msorry,”shestutters,clearlytryingtoshakeofftheshock.“I’msorry,butIthinkyoushouldleave.”Shestartstoclosethedoor,butbeforeshecan,Istickmyfootoverthethreshold,wedgingitopen.
“It’simportant,”Isay.“I’mworriedaboutyou.”
“You’reworriedaboutme?”sheasks,hereyesgrowingwide.“Isabelle,nooffense,butIthinkyoushouldbeworriedaboutyourself.”
“IsthatwhatBentoldyou?”Iask,leaningforward.“Thatweweren’thappyforalong,longtime?Thathetriedtohelpmebuthecouldnevergetthrough?Thathe’sagoodpersonanddeservestobehappy,too?”
Iseeherexpressionwaver,justforasecond,andIknowI’vehitanerve.IimagineBenshowinguptotherapy,alone,eyesmistyashedescribedmetoherthesamewayhehaddescribedAllisontomeonthesideofthathouse:myhandsonhischeeks,heartstringspulledsotighttheyfeltliketheymightsnap.Paintingapictureofmethatcastmeintheworstpossiblelight:abrokenwoman,alostcause.Someonehehadtriedtosave.
Valerie’seyesareonminenow,andIcanseethequestionsswirlinginherpupils.ThequestionsIknowshewantstoask.She’scuriousaboutmethesamewayIhadbeencuriousaboutAllison.IthinkbacknowonthatmomentwhenValerieandIfirstmet—themomentIhadstumbledintothatroominthechurchandtakenherbysurprise.Ithinkaboutthewayshehadlookedatmeandinvitedmetostay,almostasifshewantedtoknowmysideofit,too.
“He’snotwhoyouthinkheis,”Icontinue.“Ijustwanttotalk.”
Itrytoputmyselfinhershoes,wondering:IfIhadfoundAllisononmydoorsteponemorning,offeringherselftomethewayIamnowtoValerie,wouldIhavetakentheopportunity?WouldIhavebetrayedBenforjustthesmallestpeekintotheirlivestogether—aglimpsebehindthatcarefullyclosedcurtainthathewouldneverallowmetopushaside?Afterall,Ihadimagineditsomanytimes:her,them,thewayI’msureValeriehasimaginedus.
IthinkofAllison’sfingersonmyarm,herlipsonmyear.Thegoosebumpsthateruptedacrossmyskin,theintrigueofbeingsoclosetosomeoneIhadspentsomuchtimedaydreamingabout,wonderingabout.Obsessingabout.
Iwouldhavedoneit.Iwouldhaveletherin.
“Valerie,”Isay,restingmyhandonhers.Sheflinches,likeshehadexpectedmytouchtoburn,butafterafewmoresecondsofsilence,Icanseeherresolvemelt.Likewaxturningtoliquid,malleableinmyfingers,thecuriosityovercomesher,thewayIknewitwould
Thenshecracksthedoorbackopen,hereyesonthefloor,andgesturesformetocomeinside.
CHAPTERFIFTY-SEVEN
Istepintothelivingroomandtakeaseatontheedgeofaslipcoveredcouch.Thehouseissmallbuthomey:afireplacewithaclutteredmantel,stringlightsilluminatingacollectionofcandlesandbooksstackedhighinbothcorners.There’saglasscoffeetableinthecenterofitallandaseriesofpicturesclippedtoastringwithclothespinsagainstthebackwall.
Sheseemsfun,eclectic.Soincrediblyyoung.
Valeriesitsinachairontheoppositesideofthetable,eyingmefromacrosstheroom.Shedoesn’tseemscaredorsuspicious;instead,sheseemsalittleonguard,likeI’msomekindofrabidanimalsheisn’tquitesurehowtohandle.
LikeImightlashoutandbite.
“Firstofall,”shesays,crossingonelegovertheother,“IjustwantedtosaythatI’msorry,Isabelle.ItoldBenthatitfelttoosoon…”
Shestops,divertshereyestothefloor,fullyawareoftherolesheholdsinthisrelationshipofours.
“Youjusthavealotgoingon,”shecontinues.“AndI’msorryiftheadditionofmeismakingitworse.”
I’mquiet,notquitesurehowtorespondtothat.
“Thankyou,”Isayatlast.“Thatmeansalot.”
“So,whatisitthatyou’dlikemetoknow?”
Sheleansbackinherchair,andIgetthedistinctfeelingthatshe’sabouttoreadmelikeoneofherpatients.Likeshe’sinherentlywaryofwhatI’mabouttodivulgeandsheintendstoanalyzewhatevercomesoutofmymouthnext.
“There’snoeasywaytosaythis,”Istart,tryingtokeepmylegfrombouncing.“ButIjustwanttomakesureyouknowwhatyou’regettingyourselfinto.WithBen.”
“Okay,”shesays.“AndwhatamIgettingmyselfinto?”
“Didyouknowhewasmarriedbefore?Beforeme,Imean.”
“Allison,”shenods.“Yes,I’veheard.”
Itrynottoshowmysurpriseatthementionofhername.Forsomereason,IassumedBenwouldhavehiddenthatfromher.Lessbaggage.
“Anddidyouknowshedied?”
“Yes.I’veseenmyfairshareofsuicideinthislineofwork,unfortunately.It’stragic.”
“Well,anoverdose,”Iclarify.“Accidentalor…otherwise.”
Valerielooksatme,hereyessquintingasshetriestodissectwhatI’msaying.“Youreallythinkitwasanaccident?”
“Honestly?”Iask,steelingmyself.“I’mnotconvincedshediditatall.”
Shetiltsherheadtotheside,likeshe’stryingtodecideifI’mjoking.
“ShediedrightaroundthetimeBenandIstartedtogetinvolved,”Icontinue,talkingfaster.“DidBentellyoushewaspregnant?Didhetellyouheneverreallywantedkids?”
Valerieblinks,expressionless,andIwaitforaresponse,forsomething,butnothingevercomes.
“Inhindsight,itdoesn’tseemlikeacoincidence,”Igoon,realizingsheisn’tgoingtobudge.“Especiallynow,withthedisappearanceofmyson…andyou,showinguprightafter…notthatIamplacinganyblameonyou,ofcourse.ButBenhadmotivationsforbothAllisonandMasontobeoutofhislife.Wecan’tjustignorethat.”
Iwatchassheletstheinformationsettleoverher,absorbingeveryword.
“Ijustwantedyoutoknoweverythingupfront,”Ifinish.“Soyoucanmaketherightdecisionforyourself.”
“Wow,”shefinallymutters,shakingherhead.“That’s…alottotakein.”
“Iknow.Iknowit’shardtoprocess—”
“Doyouunderstandwhatyou’resaying?”sheasks,cuttingmeoff.“Isabelle,listentowhatyou’resaying.Listentohowitsounds.”
Ifeelafamiliartwistinmystomach,thatsamestabbingpainthatflaredupeverytimeBenormymotherorDetectiveDozierlookedatmethewayValerieislookingatmerightnow:withsuspicion,distrust.Fear.
“Iknowhowitsounds,”Isay.“ButValerie,he’sdangerous.”
“No,”shesays,shakingherhead.“No,thisisdangerous,Isabelle.Youspinningtheseinsanetheoriesisdangerous.You’regoingtohurtsomeoneagain.”
Ifeelacatchinmythroat,becauseIcan’tdenythat.She’sright.Ihavehurtsomeonebefore.Ihavealreadylostmyselfinthequesttofindanswers,abandoningreasonandlogicinanefforttofindsomeonetoblame.
Butthistimeisn’tlikethat.Thistime,itfeelsright
“Iwasjusttryingtohearyouout,giveyouachance,butyouneedprofessionalhelp,”shecontinues.“Real,serioushelp,Isabelle.AndIcan’tdothatforyou.Givenourpersonalties,itwouldn’tberight.IwishIcould,butIcan’t.”
Valeriestandsup,asilentcuethatit’stimeformetoleave.
“Benwarnedmeaboutthis,”shesays,almostlikeanafterthought.“You’reexactlylikehesaidyouwere.”
“AndhowdidhesayIwas?”Iwhisper,myheartpoundinginmychest.
“Deeplytroubled,”shesaysatlast.“Practicallyunhinged.”
Isqueezemyfingers,feelingthestingingcutinmypalm,andfinallyallowmyselftoprocesswhatI’vebecomeovertheselasttwelvemonths:notevenhuman,really,butanocturnalanimal.Ashellofathingcrawlingthroughlifewithhazyeyesandamindhingingonmadness,likeI’monesmallstumbleawayfromlosingitcompletely.I’vetriednottospendtoomuchtimeworryingabouthowitmustlookfromtheoutside,butnowIletmyselfseeitallthroughBen’seyes:thatcollageinmydiningroomandthewayIsitthereforhours,staring.Imagining.Thinkingthroughscenariosandconvincingmyselftheycouldbereal.
Lyingawakeinthedarkorwanderingaroundtheneighborhoodatnight;runningaroundblind,lookingforsomeone,anyone,totakeawaymyblame.
“Look,Isabelle.I’msorry,”Valeriesaysatlast,sighing.“Ireallyam.Butyouarelookingforanswersinplaceswheretheyjustdon’texist.”
Ipickatmynails,eyescastdowntothefloor.I’veheardthatsomanytimes.Suddenly,Ithinkofmyfather,creatingthatstoryaboutMargaret’sdeathbecauseitwasjusteasierforeveryonetoaccept.Iwonderifthat’swhatWaylondid,too.Ifhesimplycreatedastoryheneededtobelieve:thatAllisonneverwouldhavedoneit.Thatsheneverwouldhavetakenherownlife.Maybehe’sbeenspendingthelasteightyearstryingtoproveit,dedicatinghisownlifetolearningaboutdeathbecausethetruthofhisownsister’sistoopainfultoaccept.
Maybehe’sjustlookingforsomeonetoberesponsible,thewayIam,too.Maybewe’rebothsodesperateforanswers,we’rewillingtobelieveanything.
“Iwon’ttellBenyoucamehere,”Valeriesays.“Hewouldbeheartbrokenifhefoundoutyouwerethinkingabouthimlikethis.”
Inodmyheadgently,tooashamedtomeethergaze.ThenIstandupandtakeonemoreglancearoundtheroom,readytoapologizeandstepbackoutside,whensomethinginthecornercatchesmyeye
It’sthatwallofpictures.Irealizenow,standingcloser,they’realmostentirelyofBen.
Iwalktowardthewall,awayfromthedoor,andscanthemallhangingthere,onebyone.IseeValerieandBensittinginthegrassdowntown,Spanishmossdrapedbehindthemlikeastagecurtainbeingwhippedback.There’sanotheroftheminthestandsofaconcert,colorfullightsdancingacrossastageinthedistance,andonemoreofthemlyingonthebeach,theirsunglassesreflectingaphoneheldhighinthesky.
“Isabelle,”Valeriesays,tryingtonudgemealong.Icanhearherwalkingcloser,sidlingupbehindme.“Idon’tthinkit’llhelpforyoutolookatthose.”
ButIdon’tturnaround.Ican’tturnaround.I’mtoofocusedonBenandthevaryingshadesofstubbleonhischeeks;onValerie’ssubtlehighlightsslowlygrowingout,afingerofdarkrootspinchingatherscalp.Visiblesignsofthepassageoftimethatshouldn’tbepossibleforarelationshipthisnew.
“Youdidn’tmeetatthatgriefcounselinggroup.”
Itseemssoobvioustomenow,Ihatemyselffornotseeingitsooner.Afterall,wehadastory,too.BenandI.Butitwasn’treal.Itwassomethinghehadconcocted;somethinghehadcreatedtopainthimselfinthemostflatteringlight.Ourrelationshiphadstartedlongbeforeweannouncedittotheworld,andIrememberthatfirstnighttogetherafterthememorialnow,thetwoofustangledbetweenthesheetsofmychildhoodbed.Thesicknessthatsettledinmystomachafterhestoodupandwalkedaway,likeIknewIhadjustconsumedsomethingthatwasboundtohurtme.
“Youknowwecan’ttellanybodyaboutthis.Notyet.”
ItwistaroundnowandlookatValerie,standingrightbehindme,eyeswideandafraid.HereallydiddotomewhatwedidtoAllison.
BenandValerieweretogetherlongbeforewewereapart.
“Howlong?”Iask,takingastepcloser.“Howlonghaveyoubeentogether?”
Valerieshakesherhead,alittlequiverinherlip,andtakesastepbackward,puttingsomedistancebetweenus.
“Howlong?”
“Ifeltsobadforthelongesttime,”shesaysatlast.“Doingwhatwedidbehindyourback.Butthethingshetoldmeaboutyou…”
Irememberthatfeeling:thejustificationofit.Theguilt,theindignity,overriddenbythestoriesItoldmyself.ThestoriesaboutAllisonIdecidedtoacceptinordertomakemyselffeelbetter:thattheyweren’tus.It’saformofself-preservation,really.Wearenothingbutwhatwechoosetobelieve,butit’sallamirage,bendingandwarpingandshimmeringinthedistance,changingitsformatanygivensecond.
Showingusexactlywhatwewanttoseewhenwewanttoseeit.
“Howlong?”Irepeat,myresolvesettlingbackinandhardeninginmystomach.“HowlonghaveyoubeenwithBen?”
Thehouseisquietinasilentstandoff.Finally,shesighs.
“Twoyears.”
Twoyears.Twoyears.Fortwoentireyears,Benhasbeenseeingsomeoneelse.BeforeMasonwastaken.Beforeheeventookhisfirststeps.
Icountbackinmyheadnow,tryingtodeterminehowoldhewouldhavebeen.
“Sixmonths,”Isay,mutteringtomyself.Masonwouldhavebeensixmonthsoldwhentheyfirstgottogether:theagehewaswhenIstartedworkingagain.WhenItookoffforafewnightseverymonth,drivingtoNorthCarolinaandAlabamaandMississippi,tryingtochasethoselittlemomentsofmeaningthatwererippedfrommeallthoseyearsago.
“Youwerealwaysleaving,”Valeriesaysnow,stilltryingtojustifyit.“Hewaslonely,Isabelle.Youlefthimandyoursonfordaysonend—”
“Hewaslonely?”Isay,asuddenburstofangersurgingthroughme.“Isthatwhathesaid?HesaidthatIwasalwaysleaving?ThatIwastheonewhowasneveraround?”
“Isawit,”shesays,hervoicesuddenlysharplikevenom.“IsawthewayhehadtotakecareofMasonbyhimself.Don’tdenyit.”
“Yousawit—”Iwhisper,theroomstartingtospin.“OhmyGod.Hebroughtyoutoourhouse?”
Itakeafewstepscloser,intothecenteroftheroom,mymindracing.
“Hebroughtyoutoourhouse,aroundourson,andhewasgrowingup,”Isay,speakingfaster.“Masonwasgrowingup,juststartingtotalk.Prettysoon,hewouldhavestartedsayingsomething,right?SayingsomethingtomeabouttheotherwomanwhocameoverwhenIwasn’tthere?”
IthinkaboutthatstoryIalwaystelltotheaudience;theonemeanttoeasethetensionandelicitalaugh.MasonandBenandthemobileabovehiscrib;howhewouldtrytosoundoutthewords—Tyrantosnorious—gettingbetterandbettereverysingletime.
“Don’tyouthinkBenthoughtaboutthat?”Iask.“Don’tyouthinkherealized—”
Istop,stare,understandingsettlingovermeslowly.Alloftheselittlepiecesthatneveraddedup,nevermadesense,untilnow.Icanfeeltheblooddrainfrommyface,likesomeonerippedoutaplugfrombeneathme,bleedingmedry.
Thetruthisrighthere,rightinfrontofme.Ihaveliterallybeenstaringatit,ather,thisentiretime.
“Whatdidyoudo?”Iask,myvoiceawhisper.“Whatdidyoudotomyson?”
Valerieisquiet,eyingme.Itreallyisstrikinghowalikewelook,especiallyatadistance.Thetannedskinofherarms,herlegs;thecoffee-brownshadeofherhairandthewide,unassumingeyes.Iimagineherwalkingdownthestreetatnight,late,leavingmyhouseattheendofafewdaysspentwithBen.Shewouldhaveparkedsomewherefaraway,I’msure,tokeepacoverfromtheneighbors.Benwouldhaveinsisted—forappearances’sake.Alwaysforappearances’sake.AndIcanalmostpictureit:her,stridingpastthatstreetlight,feelingthelifeleakingfromherskinwitheverysinglestep,knowingthatIwasonmywayhometohim.Knowingthatwewouldbesleepingtogetherthatnightwhileshewasinthissadlittlehouse,alone,hereyesontheceilingandhermindonus.ItwasthesamewayIfeltwhenBenwouldstandupfromthatbarstoolandreturnhometoAllison:thegut-wrenchingknowledgeofbeingsomethinghekepthidden,secret,likeadirtyhabitheonlybrokeoutatnight.
Andthen:thecreakofarockingchair.Therealizationthatshewasn’talone.Aglancetothesideandanoldmansittingonhisporch,cloudyeyesonher
“I’mIsabelle,”shewouldhavesaid,stopping,smiling.Lettingherselfbelieveit.Lettingherselfshedherownskinandslipintomineforjustonemoresecond.Lettingherselfbeme,Ben’swife,thewayIhadalwayswantedtobeAllison.Likeifshejustsaiditoutloud,willeditintoexistence,itwouldsomehowbetrue.“Yourneighbor,IsabelleDrake.”
CHAPTERFIFTY-EIGHT
“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”
Valerieisstilllookingatme,unwavering,andIcanfeelthebileclawitswayupmythroat.
“Yesyoudo,”Isay,myvoicetrembling.“Youtookmyson.”
Iimagineherlettingherselfintomyhomewithherkey—thekeyBenhadgivenher,swipingitfrombeneathourmatthatdayandslippingitintoherpalm,closingherfingers—andthequietstillnessofthehouseasRoscoeambleduptoherinthedark.Hewouldhaverecognizedherafteranentireyearofhercomingover;shewouldn’thavebeenastrangeranymore.Icanimaginethehushedwhispersasshecalmedhimbacktobed,rubbedbehindhisears.Herfootstepsdownthehall,intoMason’snursery.Creepingintohisbedroom,coveringherfingerswiththefabricofhersleeves,andslidingthewindowopen.Lettinginacool,dampbreezeasshepickedhimupandcarriedhimbackoutthefrontdoor,lockingitbehindher.
IwonderifMasonfeltsafewithher.Iwonderifthat’swhyhedidn’tscream.
“Somepeoplejustaren’tfittobemothers,”shesaysatlast,likethat’sanexplanationIshouldsomehowunderstand.
“Whatdidyoudotohim?”
Itrytoimagineit,thoselittletastesofalifeshegotwithBen—areallife,notthehidden,secretthingshehad—beforetheywererippedawayfromheroverandoverandoveragain.Theadrenalinepumpingthroughherchestthatveryfirsttimeshesteppedintoourhome,trailedherfingersacrossmyvanity.Ranmybrushthroughherhair,leavingherownstrandstangledinwithmineandsmilingattheknowledgethatIwouldneverknow.Lookingintomymirrorandseeingherownreflection,herconfidencegrowingassheflippedthroughmycloset,triedonmyclothes.ImaginingherselfinthepictureswithBeninsteadofme.
“Neitherofyouwantedtobeparents,”shesays.“Notreally.Notwhenitcamedowntoit.”
Iimagineherlyinginourbed,fingersdancingacrossBen’sbarechest.Mason’scrieseruptingfromtheotherroom—andhimhavingtogetup,leaveherthere.
Hewasalwaysafussybaby.
“Therearesomanypeopleouttherewhowouldlovetohaveachild,”shesays.“Youhavenoidea,Isabelle.Peoplewouldkillforit,butit’snotforeverybody.”
Shedidn’twanttoshareBenanymore.Shedidn’twanttosharehimwithme,withMason.Withanybody.
“Tellmewhereheis,”Isay,handsshaking.Itakeastepforward,closertoher.She’sbackedupagainstthecoffeetablenow;there’snowherelefttogo.“Ifyoutellme,Icanforgetaboutthis.Icanforgetaboutyou.”
“It’sforthebest,”shesays.“Foreverybody.”
Itakeanotherstep,closer.“Tellmewhereheis.”
“Bentoldmewhatyoudidtoyoursister,”shecontinues.“Itwasonlyamatteroftimebeforeyoudidsomethingtoyourson,too.Youknowthat,right?”
“Tellmewhereheis!”Ishout,ablindingragecoursingthroughme.Itfeelsjustlikethatlasttime—myarms,myhands,tinglingwithadrenaline;theroilingangerbuildingandbuildingrightbeforeIlostcontrol.
“It’sokay,”shesays,smiling.“Isabelle,he’sinabetterplace.”
Ihearthosewords,andIsuddenlyseeitsoclearly:Valerieonhercomputer,readingthatarticle,staringatthatpictureofmeonstage.Mybloodshoteyessoakinginthescowlsandthestaresforjustthetiniestchanceatthetruth.Lookingoutattheaudience,pleadingintothemicrophone,andeventually,justabsorbingthewhisperssodeepthatfinally,Ibelievedthem,too.
IthinkofValerieknowingthat—knowingthetruth,whatshedid,whatshetookfromme—andstilltypingthatcommentanyway,danglingitinfrontofmebeforecomingtohersensesanderasingitforever.
Ithinkofherlookingatmeinthatchurch,headtiltedtothesideasshegesturedtothecandlesflickeringinthedark.Thepityinhereyes—thenerve,thearrogance—andsuddenly,IfeelmybodylungeatherbeforeIcanevenrealizewhatI’mdoing,thosewordsringingloudlyinmyears.
He’sinabetterplace.
Ifeelthesuddenjoltofimpact,ourbodiestanglingtogetherandfallinginunisonuntilwecollapseontothecoffeetableanditbucklesbeneathus,thesoundofglassshatteringmixedwithasickeningskullcrack.
CHAPTERFIFTY-NINE
TWODAYSLATER
Thump-thump-thump.
Mypupilsaredrillingintoaspotinthecarpet.Aspotwithnosignificance,really,otherthanthefactthatmyeyesseemtolikeithere.Ilistentothethumping,thebeating,thesteadythrumofaheartbeatinmyears.Arhythmicecho,likeslippingbeneaththebathwaterandlisteningtoitpulse.
Thump-thump.
Ilookup,blinkafewtimes,thespotdissolvingintothecarpetagain.
“Isabelle?”Thump-thump-thump.“Isabelle,Iseeyourcaroutside.”
Irealizenowthatsomeoneisatthedoor,knocking.Roscoeisbarking,histailwaggingheatedlyagainstthehardwoodfloor,andIsqueezemyeyesshut,tryingtosquelchthestinging.ThenIstandupfromthecouchandmakemywayover.
“That’senough,”Isay,pattingdownhisears.MychestsqueezesasIreachforthedoor,eventhoughIalreadyknowwhoitis.EventhoughI’vebeenexpectingit,expectinghim,whileI’vewatchedtheworldgobythroughmywindowlikeatime-lapsevideoforthelasttwodays.
“DetectiveDozier,”Isay,crackingthedooropenandregisteringhisfamiliarframeonmyporch:theheavylimbsandhardenedeyes.“Goodtoseeyou.”
“Yeah,hi,”hesays,hookinghisthumbsthroughhisbeltloopsagain.“I’vebeenouthereforfiveminutes.Youdidn’thearmeknocking?”
“Iwasasleep,”Ilie,plasteringasmileonmyface.“Sorry.”
“MindifIcomein?”
“Sure.”Iextendmyarmoutandopenthedoorwiderbeforewalkingbackintothelivingroomandtakingaseatonthecouch.
“Whathappenedthere?”
Ifollowhisgazeandlookdownatthegauzeonmyhand.It’sstillwrappedtightlyaroundmypalm,alittlespotofdriedbloodsoakedthroughthebandage
“Wineglass,”Isay,holdingitup.“Cutitprettybad.”
“Huh.”
Hecontinuestostare,hiseyesdartingbackandforthbetweenmyfaceandmyhand.
“So,whatcanIdoforyou?”Iask,tryingtochangethesubject.
“There’sbeena…development,”hesaysatlast.“Inyourcase.Wantedtocomebyandtellyoumyself.”
Ilookupathim,eyestight,likeIjustopenedthemunderwaterinabathtubfullofchlorine.I’vespentthelastforty-eighthoursinastrangejumbleofnumbnessandnerves,likemybodydoesn’tquiteknowhowitshouldrespond.I’vefeltthiswayeversinceIstoodupslowlyinValerie’slivingroom,thecrunchofglassbeneathmyshoesandtheraggednessofmyownbreathamplifiedaroundme.EversinceIlookeddownatherlifelessbodyandthoseshardsfromthetable,sharpandpiercing,likedozensofdaggersscatteredacrossthefloor.
EversinceIgazedintothosewide-openeyes,glassylikeporcelain,andthepuddleofbloodexpandingbeneathher.Theabsolutestillnessofherchest.
“Andwhat’sthat?”Iask,eventhoughIalreadyknow.
“I’msureyou’veseenthenews,”hesays,takingastepforward.“AboutthemurderofValerieSherman.”
“Yes,”Isay,nodding.It’sbeenallover,ofcourse:thelatestcraze.Ayoung,attractivewomanfounddeadinherhome,inapoolofherownblood.“Burglarygonewrong,Iheard.”
“Thatwastheoriginaltheory,”hesays.“Brokencoffeetable,thehouseindisarray.Butthemorewelookedatit,themoreitseemedoff.Staged.”
Iclenchmyfingers.“Staged?”
“Likesomeonewastryingtofakeabreak-in,”hecontinues,eyingme.“Similartocrackingopenawindowtotrytofakeakidnapping.”
Icanfeelmyhearthammeringinmychest,mypalmsgettingslickwithsweat.
“Whyareyoutellingmethis?”
“AsI’msureyouknowbynow,Valeriewasinarelationshipwithyourhusband.Hadbeenforquiteawhile.Whileyoutwowerestillmarried.”
“Yes,”Isay,nodding.“Yes,I’maware.”
“Wefoundpicturesofhiminthehome,”hesays.“Other…belongingsthatappeartobehis.”
I’mquiet,lettinghimcontinue.Onlyspeakwhenspokento,atrickmyfathertaughtme.
“Afterherdeathhitthenews,wegotaphonecallfromaclientofhers,”hesaysatlast.“Valeriewasatherapist.Sheranaweeklygriefcounselinggroupoutofthecathedraldowntown.Hadquiteafewregulars.”
Inod.
“Accordingtothisclient,hesawthetwoofyouinteractingonthenightofMason’svigil.”
Irememberthatmanwhohadshuffledin,breakingupourconversationbeforeitcouldevenstart.Theapologyinhiseyesashehobbledpast,takingaseat.Eyingusquietlyfromthecorner,listening.
“Didyouknowwhoshewasthen?”Dozierasks.“Herrelationshipwithyourhusband?”
“No,”Isay,thefirstauthenticthingI’vesaidallday.“No,Ididn’t.Ihadnoidea.”
“Soyoujusthappenedtoconfrontyourhusband’smistresslessthantwoweeksbeforeshewasfounddeadinherhome?”
“Idon’tknowwhattotellyou,”Isay.“Coincidence,Iguess.”
Hiseyesdartdowntomyhandagain,thenbackatme.
“Isthiswhyyou’rehere?”Iaskatlast,tryingtosoundexasperated.Tryingtoactasthoughtheideaofmehavinganythingtodowiththisisridiculous,impossible.Toofar-fetchedtoevenentertain.“Toquestionmeaboutamurder?”
Dozierstaresatmeforanothersecondbeforeheletsoutasigh,shakinghishead.
“No,”hesaysatlast.“I’mherebecausethatclientalsogaveusaname.”
“Aname,”Irepeat,tryingtohidemyconfusion.Thisisn’thowIexpectedthisconversationtogo.“Whosename?”
“ThenameofawomanwhoalsousedtoattendthegroupbutstoppedcomingafterMason’sdisappearance,”hesays.“Awomanwhowasunabletohavechildren.”
Myeyesaredrillingintohisnow,rememberingthosewordsValeriehadsaid.Thejustificationforwhatshedid,asifsheweredoingtheworldafavor.
“Therearesomanypeopleouttherewhowouldlovetohaveachild.”
“Hedidn’tthinkmuchofitatfirst,butafterlearningaboutValerie’sdeathandthenhearingaboutheraffairwithyourhusband,hedecidedtocallitin.”
Ittakesasecondtoregister,butfinally,Irealizewhathe’stryingtotellme:AwomangoingmissingattheexactsametimeasMason.Awomanwhowantedkidsandcouldn’thavethem.AwomanwhoknewValerie.
“Sowhatdoesthismean?”Iask,edgingmyselftotheveryendofthecouch.“Whoisshe?”
“Idon’twantyougettingaheadofyourself,”hesays,holdinghispalmout.Hedigshisotherhandintohisbackpocket,pullingoutasmallpicture.“Itcouldbenothing,butwe’relookingintoit.Doesthiswomanlookfamiliartoyou?OrdoesthenameAbigailFisherringabell?”
Igrabthepictureandstareatthewoman:hermouseybrownhairandunassumingeyes.Shelooksalittleolderthanme—mid-forties,maybe—andImassagethenameinmymind,tryingtoplaceit.I’vesiftedthroughsomanynamesovertheselasttwelvemonths—andthat’swhenmynecksnapsup,myeyesonmydiningroom.Istandupandwalktowardthetable,theTrueCrimeConattendeeliststilltackeduponthewall.
“AbigailFisher,”Isay,myfingertappinghardagainstthenamewhenIfindit.Itrytotampdownthehopefulbeatinginmychest,buttheexcitementispalpableinmyvoicenow.AgiddinessIcan’tcontain.“Righthere.AbigailFisher.Shewasattheconference.”
IlookatDozier,thenbackdownatthepicture,andthat’swhenIrealize:theeyes.I’veseenthoseeyesbefore.Irememberthewaytheygrewsodampanddistant,tearsglisteningasshewatchedmeonstage,mouthingmyeveryword
“OhmyGod,”Isay,rushingovertomylaptopandthrowingitopen.Irememberpullingupthatarticleandstudyingthepictureoftheaudience;thewaythecameraflashhadmadetheireyesglow,turningthemintosomethingetherealandstrange.
Thewaythatwoman’sgazehadmademephysicallyshiver,likemybodywasreactingtosomekindofdangermymindcouldn’tyetunderstand.
“AbigailFisher,”Isayagain,myheartthumpingtoohardinmychestasthearticleloads.Onceitdoes,Itwistaroundandtapatthescreen,myfingersdancingwildly,watchingDozier’sexpressionshiftasheprocessesit,too:hisgazemovingfrommetotheaudience,thenzeroinginonher.Hiseyesdartingbackandforthbetweenthewomaninthefrontrowandthewomaninthepicturehegaveme.
Theroomisquietforabeatlonger,thehugenessofthismomentsettlingoverusboth.Finally,afterallthistime,wehaveaface.Aname.Achance.
“AbigailFisher,”herepeats,noddinghisheadinaresignedrhythm.“That’sher.”
CHAPTERSIXTY
ONEWEEKLATER
Ihearabuzzandglanceup,watchingasthebulkymetaldoorswingsopen.Myeyesarestinging.Notfromsleep,though—orrather,thelackthereof—butfromthecheap,fluorescentbulbsaboveme.Fromtheharshlightofthisplace.
“IsabelleDrake?”
IglanceattheprisonguardinfrontofthedoorandIraisemyhand,smilingmeekly.Thegashonmypalmhashealedslightlynow,nolongeragapingwoundbutathin,puckeredscab.IcanstillseeDozier’seyesonit,onme,tryingtopieceitalltogetherinmylivingroomthatday.Tryingtoassembleallthecluesintotheperfectpatterntomakeapictureform.
“Lastthing,”hehadsaid,swingingaroundasIescortedhimtothedoor.Hecouldn’tstopstaringatit:thatbloodycutonmypalm.Hewasthinking,I’msure,ofValerie’slifelessbodyoverthatmountainofglass;ofthoseshards,sharpandjagged,andthetemperhehadseeninmehimself.Thewayitcouldflareupatanysecond,leavingmeinablindrage.
“Valerietookalotfromyou,”hesaid,shiftinghisweightfromonelegtotheotherlikehewassuddenlyuncomfortable.“Howdoesthatmakeyoufeel?”
Istaredathimblankly,theunderstatementofthecentury.
“Shetookmyson,”Isaid,gesturingtothepicturestillinhisgrasp.“Howdoyouthinkitmakesmefeel?”
“Wedon’tknowthatyet,”heresponded,thoughIcouldseeitinhisface:thecertaintyalreadysettingin.Theperfectionofit:Awomanwhowantedachildmorethananythingandanotherwomanwhowantedonegone.Hecouldpictureit,I’msure,thewayIwas,too:ValerielisteningtoAbigailcryeveryMondaynight,lamentingtheunfairnessofitall.Yearningtobeamother,thedesperationinhervoice,whileValeriethoughtofMasonandalltheliesBenhadtoldheraboutmebeingunfit,unworthy.Imagininghowhisdisappearancewouldsolvejustabouteverything.
“It’sforthebest,”shehadsaid.“Foreverybody.”
Doziersighed,andIcouldhearhistongueclickingaroundinhismouth,hisfingernailsscratchingagainstthefabricofhispants.Fidgeting,deciding.
“I’llkeepyouposted,”hesaidatlast,andIknew,inthatmoment,thatmyplanwasgoingtowork.
IstandupnowandwatchastheguardescortsBenintothevisitors’area,tryingtoimaginehowdifferentImustlooktohimafteronlyoneweek.IcaughtaglanceofmyselfinmyhallwaymirrorasIwasleavingtovisittheprison:thelifehasflushedbackintomycheeks,likesomeonedrippedreddyeintowaterandletitexpand,creepingtotheedges.Turningeverythingpink.Myeyesarewider,brighter,morealert,andtheshadowsbeneaththemarebeginningtofadelikeahealingbruise.
ButBen:Helooksdifferent,too.
“Howareyoudoing?”Iask,tiltingmyheadaswebothtakeaseat.Icanseeitnow,finally,whateveryoneelsehadseeninme:Theexhaustionetchedsodeepinhisfaceandthenewwrinklesthathavepracticallyappearedovernight.Thewayhisskinlookssallowandpale,likesomethingslowlydying.“Areyougettinganysleep?”
Benlooksatmeandrunshishandsdownhischeeks,hisfingerspullingatthestubble.Ican’thelpbutstareatthehandcuffsonhiswrists,pinchinghisskin.
“Isabelle,”hesaysatlast,hisvoicehoarse.“Ididn’tdothis.”
IthinkbacktothatmorningatValerie’s.Tostandingup,lookingaround.Herlifelessbodybeneathme,andthegravityofwhatIhaddonesettlingovereverything.Toblinkingmyeyes,tryingtoclearthedarkspotsfrommyvisionandthespinninginmyhead.Therealizationthatitwouldcomebacktome—thatitwouldalwayscomebacktome.Thescornedwife,thedesperatemother.Thecrazedwomanwhosimplylostitinafranticquestforanswers.
“Theyfoundyourringbeneathhercouch,”Isaynow.“Rightnexttoherbody.YourDNAwasalloverher,Ben.Beneathhernails.Itdoesn’tlookgood.”
“Becauseweweretogetherthatmorning,”hesays,frustrated,rippinghishandsthroughhishairlikehe’srepeatedthatsamestatementsomanytimesbefore.
Irememberthetwitchingofmyfingersasthelastbitsofadrenalineleftmybody,likeanoverworkedmusclestartingtogiveout.HowtheyhadsnakedtheirwaybeneaththecollarofmyshirtasIstareddownather,thinking,twistingBen’sringbetweenthemlikeIhaddonesomanytimesbefore.
Theringwithhisnameetchedacrossthesurface.TheringnobodyevenknewIhad.
“Thatring,”hesaysnow.“Idon’tknowhowthatringgotthere,Isabelle.Ihavenofuckingclue.Idon’tevenwearitanymore.Maybeshetookitfrommycondoorsomething,Idon’tknow.”
“DidyoufindoutwhatshedidtoMason?”Iask,myvoicesoft.“Becauseifyoudid,Iwouldn’tblameyou.Iwouldhavedonethesamething.”
“No,”hesays.“Jesus,Isabelle,Iswear.Ihadnoidea.Look:I’msorry,Iam.I’msorryforeverything.ButIdidn’tkillanybody.”
IlookatBen,myhusband,andmarvelathowwellitallcametogether:thestoryIcreated,wovenintorealityasIstoodinValerie’slivingroom,rubbingtheringagainstmyshirtandrollingitacrossthefloor.AsIpickedattheevidence,thefacts,andpiecedtogetheranarrativetoexplainitallaway.Iknewhowitwouldlookoncethepolicefounditthere,rippedoffinastruggleandlostinthedustycornersbeneaththecouch.
Amarriedmanandhismistress.Iknewhowthestorywouldunfold.
“It’seasytoblametheboyfriend,”Isay,Waylon’svoicepulsinginmyearslikethesteadythrumofheartbeat:Iwanthimtopay.“Justlikeit’seasytoblamethemother.Butyouknowwhatstilldoesn’tmakesensetome,though?WhatIcan’tfigureout?”
“What’sthat?”heasks,irritationdripping.
“HowdidValerieknowthebabymonitorwasdead?”
Itakeinthesharpclenchofhisjaw;thesubtleclankofthechainsashislegshiftsbeneathhim.Thebobofhisthroatasheswallows,readyinghimselfforalie.
“Sheknewitwasthere,”Icontinue.“Shehadbeentoourhousebeforeandsheneveroncewentintohisnursery.Iwouldhaveseenheronmyphone.”
“Idon’tknow,”hesays,hisvoicelow.“Ihavenoidea.”
“Butshehadtohaveknownitwasn’trecordingthatnight.It’salmostlikesomeonementionedittoher.”
Benissilentacrossthetable,hiseyesonmine.
“Likesomeonetoldherwhichnighttoshowup.”
Icanfeeltheheavyairbetweenus,andIknow,inmygut,thatI’mrightaboutthis,too.Icanpicturethemlyinginourbedtogetherduringoneofmynightsaway.IcanhearMason’scrieseruptingfrombeneaththedoorandBensighing,leaving,mutteringsomethingabouthowIhadletthebatteriesdieandcouldn’tbebotheredtochangethem.Valerie,stretchedoutalone,thewheelsinhermindstartingtospin,andhisvoicethegreasetheyneededtokeepturning.
“TellmeaboutAllison,”Isayatlast,leaningforward,becauseheneedstounderstandwhyhe’shere.“Howdidshedie,Ben?”
Icanseethecolordrainfromhisface;hisskin,somehow,growingevenpaler
“Whatdoyoumean?”heasks.
“YouknowwhatImean.”
“Shekilledherself.Isabelle,she—”Hestops,swallows,twistshisheadslightly.“Youdon’tthinkIdidsomethingtoher,too,doyou?”
Itrytoimagineit:Ben,forcingAllisontoswallowthosepills.Crushingthemintoapowderandslippingthemintohercoffee,maybe.Hidingtheminherfood.
“Izzy,”hepleads.“Jesus,I’veneverkilledanyone.”
Idon’tthinkthat’showithappened,though.Afterall,Ben’swordsarehisweapon.Theyalwayshavebeen.He’salwaysknownthatthebestwaytocontrolsomeoneisbyplantinganideaintheirmindandmakingthembelieveitwastheirsallalong.He’salwaysbeengoodatsprinklingthebreadcrumbs,onebyone,untilallthoselittlestepshavetakenyousomewhereelseentirely—aplacethatyoudon’tevenrecognizeanymore.Aplacesofargone,youcan’tfindyourwayback.He’salwaysknownhowtosuffocatesomeonefromtheinsideout;howtostarvethem,drownthem,pushthemsoclosetotheedgethatwhentheylookdownandseenothingbutemptyairbeneaththem—whentheydangletheirfootofftheledgeandfeelthemselvesstartingtofall—theideaofitmightactuallyfeelgood.
Andthatdeservestobepunished,too,doesn’tit?
IimagineAllisonduringallofthoselatenights,pregnant,knowingherhusbandwasoutwithsomebodyelse.FeelingthesamelonelinessthatIhadfelt,thesameregret,andseeingherlifeflashthroughhermindlikeamovie:Ben,pointingatherinthehighschoolhallanddecidingthatshewashis.Pullingherinandgivinghereverythingshewantedbeforesteeringherlifeontoadifferentpathandleavingherthere,strandedandalone,justasanotherlifehadstartedtogrowinsideher.
Iimagineherwalkingintothebathroom,tearsinhereyes,onehandonherstomachandthebottleofpillsheleftoutonthecounter,staringatherlikeaquietdare.Pickingthemupandholdingtheminherhand,knowingthatheleftthemthereonpurpose.Knowingwhathewantedhertodo—and,slowly,startingtothinkthatshemightwanttodoit,too.
Afterall,theviolencealwayscomestousinwayswecouldneverexpect:quickly,quietly.Maskedassomethingelse.Benhasalwaysknownthatyoudon’thavetopullthetriggertogetawaywithmurder—sometimes,allyouneedtodoisloadthegunandletitgooffonitsown.
CHAPTERSIXTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
“Tellmeastory.”
Icanstillhearhervoice,Margaret’svoice,asshelayonherbellyonourlivingroomfloor.Icanseeherlegskickingintheairandthoseglossypagessplayedoutinfrontofuslikeareal-lifestorybook:storiesofotherpeople,otherplaces.BeingtransportedintotheirskinasIreadthewordsoutloud,imaginingwhatitmightfeelliketobesomeoneelse.Toliveanotherlife
“You’regood,though.Attellingthestory.”
WaylonandIonthatairplane,myeyespinchedshutashestaredinmydirection.Thefloorbeneathusvibratingaswetookoffintotheair.
“It’snotastory,”Ihadsaid.“It’smylife.”
Butaren’tallofourlivesjuststorieswetellourselves?Storieswetrytocraftsoperfectlyandcastoutintotheworld?Storiesthatbecomesovivid,soreal,thateventuallywestarttobelievethem,too?
Ihadstartedspinningmyownstoryattheageofeight,awebofliesthatbecamestrongerandmoreintricateaslifewenton.Thosemicroscopicthreadsstickyandstrong,trappingeverythinggoodanddevouringitwhole.Therewassomethingwrongwithme.Somethingdarkandtoxictravelingthroughmyveins.Somethingevilthatthathousehadinjectedmewith,adeadlyvenomthatturnedmyeyestostone.Itstartedasasinglesentencemutteredtomeinthemorning—“Itscaresmewhenyoudothat”—andhadmorphedintosomethingbigger,messier.Somethingthatdefinedmyveryexistence.
Thosefootprintsonmycarpet,mybodyactinginwaysmymindcouldn’tcontrol.All-consuming,likemarshfoginthemorning,rollingacrosstheyardandswallowingmealive.
Sometimes,thestorieswecreateareaboutourselves.Sometimes,otherpeople.Butaslongaswebelievethem—aslongaswecanconvinceotherstobelievethem—theykeeptheirpower.Theyremaintrue.
IglanceupatWaylonnow,thatgreenlightblinkingbetweenus,andfeeltheweightoftheheadphonesaroundmyears.We’vecovereditall,finally:BenandAllisonandthewaythepolicewereneverquiteconvincedofhersuicide.HowDozierhadalwayssuspectedhimbutneverhadtheproofheneededtoconvict.Howhehadalwayswatchedfromadistanceafterthat,especiallyafteroursonwentmissing,pushinghimselfintothetreesatthevigil.InterrogatinghiswifetolearnwhatIknew.
Tryingtocatchhiminamisstep.Alie
IthinkabouthowDozierhadlookedatmelastweek,hiseyesdartingdowntomybandagedhand.HeknewwhathappenedtoValerie—deepdown,heknew—justlikeChiefMontgomeryknewwhathappenedtoMargaret.Whatreallyhappened.Buthedidn’twanttoknowthat,notreally.Hedidn’twanttoknowthetruth,whatactuallyoccurred,butinsteadwantedtohearwhatwaseasiertobelieve.Sohehadaskedmealltherightquestions,listenedtomerecitemylines,thenshapedarealityinhismindthatwasbetter,moreconvenient,thantheonethatreallyexisted,holdinghisownlietightagainsthischestbeforewatchingitwriggleaway,likesomethingslipperyinhishands.
WetalkedaboutBenandValerieandtheplantheyhatchedtogether;hisringbeneaththecouch,andhowhehadusedhertofindhiswaybacktoachildlesslifebeforekillingherwhenitwasoverandstagingitasaburglarytokeephissecretsafe.Kaseyagreedtobeinterviewed,too,talkingatlengthabouthowBenwasquietlycontrolling.Howshehadwatchedmechange,slowly,longbeforeMasonvanished,andhowhehadalienatedmefromeveryoneinmylifeuntilhewasallIhadleft.
AfterthenewsofBen’sarrestbroke,PaulHayesvisitedmyhouse,too,askingmetokeepasecretofhisown.
“Thatmanyousawismyfather,”hesaid,anervoustremorinhisthroat.“He’sbeenlivingwithmenowthathe’snearingtheend,butwebothhaverecords.PaststhatI’mnotproudof.”
IrememberedagainwhatDozierhadsaid:thedrugchargesandhistimeinjail.ItwasagainstthetermsofPaul’sparoletoharboranothercriminal,eventhoughthey’refamily,sohekepthisfatherstashedinthehouse,blindsdrawnandwindowsdark,hiddenawayeachdayuntilthesundippeddownanditwassafetocomebackout.
“Dadtoldmehesawyouthatnight,”hesaid,shakinghishead.“Allthistime,Ithoughtitwasyou,butIcouldn’tturnyouinwithoutturningusin,too.”
Ithinkofhimslinkingbackatthevigil;thehatredinhiseyesashefoundmesittingonhisporch.HethoughtIwasamurderer.HethoughtImurderedmyownchildandhisfatherwastheonlypersononearthwhocouldproveit.Hemusthavebeenrackedwithguilt,watchingmegetawaywithiteverysingledayandknowingthatheandhealonecouldbringmetojustice—butintheend,hechosefamily,protectinghimselfandhisfatherthroughsilenceandlies.
Andthenthere’smyownfamily,too:Myparents,whohavesincereachedbackoutinanattempttomendthebrokennessbetweenus.Mymother,andthequietguiltsheconstantlycarries;myfather,andtheshamehefeelsforfailingussobadly.Theyhadalreadylosttwodaughters,afterall.Theydidn’twanttoloseathird.It’lltaketime,Iknow,gettingtoknowoneanotheragain—forgivingthemforeverythingtheydidanddidn’tdo—butatleastit’soutintheopennow:MargaretandEllieandtheterriblethingsthathappenedinthathouse.
Thememoriesthatnoneofuswantedtoremember—but,nowthatIdo,willbeimpossibletoforget.
IremovemyheadphonesandwatchasWaylonflipstheswitch,turningthegreenlightoff.It’llbeoutintotheworldsoon,ourstory,pulsingthroughtheearsofothers—andthenit’llbetrue.It’llbetruebecausethey’llbelieveittobe,bendingthefactstofittheirfeelings.Findingfragmentsoftruthinallthewrongplaces.Forcingthemtogethertorevealapicturethatwasnevereventhereinthefirstplace.
“Youfeelgood?”Waylonasks,wrappingthecordsaroundhiswristandnestlingthembackintothecase.“Aboutallofthis?”
Iglanceoutside,thesettingsuncastinganorangelightacrossthesky.Justthreeweeksago,thesunsetusedtosignalthestartofsomething—thestartofanotherlong,lonelystretchofnight—butnowitfeelsliketheend.TheendofanightmarethatI’vefinallymanagedfromwakeupfrom.
“Yeah,”Isay,nodding.“Yeah,Ido.”
“Everythingyoudid,”hesays,“itwasworthit.”
IsmilebeforewalkingWaylontothedoor,openingitwideaswesayourgoodbyes.Oncehe’sgone,Iturnbackaroundandtakeintherenewedsilenceofmyhouse:Roscoeonthefloor,nappingquietly,duskstreamingthroughthewindowsasdinnerwarmsonthestove.Ipeerintomydiningroom,thinkingaboutallthosenamesandpicturesandarticleclippingsthatI’vesincetorndown;alltheconferencesandcallstoDozier.TheleadsIchasedblindlyinthedark
Thatcommentthathadappearedandvanishedagain.
He’sinabetterplace.
That’showitallended:thatcomment.Evenafteritwasdeleted,theywerestillabletotraceit—anditbroughtthemnottoValerie’splace,buttoAbigailFisher’s,anondescriptlittlerentalshehadmovedintohalfwayacrossthecountry.Andthat’swheretheyfoundher,waiting,almostlikeshewasrelievedtogetcaught:sittinginalittlenurserysetupwithtoysanddinosaursandpilesofbooks.
Allthethingsachildwouldneedtobehappy,healthy.Loved.
Istillthinkabouthowitmusthavebeenforher:achildlesswomanjusttryingtogrieveandmoveon—butshecouldn’t.Shecouldn’tmoveon.Instead,sheheldontoit,refusingtoletitgo,pushingitaroundandarounduntilValerieapproachedheronenight,late,andtoldherastory.
Astoryaboutaboywithanunfitmother.Aboywhowouldbebetteroffwithsomebodyelse.
Inaway,Iunderstandit.Ireallydo.Nothingaboutgriefmakessense:thethingsithasusdo,theliesitleadsustobelieve.Valeriesimplytoldherwhatshewantedtohear,andsheletherselfbelieveit—thatitwasforthebest,foreverybody—sosheswallowedherguiltandherfearasshemetherthatnight,late,fingersdiggingintoMason’slittlebodyashewaspassedbetweentheminthedark,hisstuffeddinosaurslippingfromhisgripandgettingstuckinthemud.
Thenshestrappedhimintohercarseatandtookofffast,disappearingintothenight.
Iwalkdownthehallnow,towardMason’snursery,andapproachthedoorthatI’vealwayskeptclosed.ItouchmyhandtotheknobthewayI’vedonesomanytimesbefore—tooafraidtotwistit,topeerinside,tocatchaglimpseofeverythingIhadlost—butnowIdo.Iopenitgently.Iletmyselflook.Andthereheis,justasI’veimagineditsomanytimesbefore:There’sMason,sittingupinhisbed,crackingthattoothylittlesmilewhenheseesme.He’sholdingthatsamestuffedtoy,themudcleanedoffbeforebeingremovedfromevidenceandreturnedbacktous,agentlereminderofthelifewithmeIknowhe’sprobablyforgotten.
Hewasgoneforanentireyear,afterall.AnentireyearthatIwillnevergetback.
Andthatcouldhavebeentheendofit:AbigailFisherdrivingfastdowntheinterstate,movingthembothintoanewhome.Anewlife.Masongrowingupwithanothermother,hisyoungmemoryerasingmecompletely,littleglimpsescomingtohimonlyasafoggydream,adistantecho.Somethingfracturedandbrokenandwarpedwithtime.Hemighthavebeenhappy,even,whateverstoryAbigailtoldhimplantingrootsandturningtrue—untilshestartedseeingmeinthenewseachday,beggingforhimback.Untilthedoubtshadcreptin,forcinghertocometomytalksandlistentomespeak.UntilshestartedseeingmenotasthemonsterValeriehadmademeouttobebutasaheartsickmotherdesperateforherchild—soshememorizedmyspeechandcriedasItoldit,knowingshehadmadeamistake,butstill,tryingtoconvinceherselfthatthestoryhadbeentrue.Thatshedidwhatwasright.
Thathewasinabetterplace.
AUTHOR’SNOTE
Ifyouhaven’tmadeittotheendofthestoryyet,Iaskthatyoustopreadingthisnowandfinishfirst—whatcomesnextwillsurelyspoileverything.
Beforethisbookexistedonpaperanditwasstilljustanideainmyhead,theideawasbasicallythis:Whatwoulditfeelliketobetrappedinsidethemindofasleep-deprivedmotherwho,deepdown,believedthatthedisappearanceofherchildwassomehowherfault?WhenIstartedwonderingwhyshewouldbelievethat,ithitmelikeatruck:It’sbecausemothers—and,honestly,womeningeneral—areconditionedfrombirthtofeelguiltyaboutsomething.Wealwaysthinkthingsareourfault.Wealwaysfeeltheneedtoapologize:Forbeingtoomuchortoolittle.Tooloudortooquiet.Toodrivenortoocontent.
Forwantingchildrenmorethananythingorfornotevenwantingthematall.
Iwon’tlietoyou:Iwasafraidtowriteabookaboutmotherhoodwithoutfirstbeingamothermyself.Imakesomestrongstatementsinthisnovel,andIwasworriedaboutmakingthosestatementswithoutcomingfromaplaceofpersonalexperience.TherearemanythingsaboutmotherhoodthatIsimplycannotunderstand,andinthoseinstances,Ireliedheavilyonresearch,aswellasspeakingtofriendsandfamilymemberswhoaremotherstohelpmesortthroughitall.AndwhileIacknowledgethattherearecertainemotionsandexperiencesthatIcannotfullyappreciateyet,Ialsobelievethateverywomancanunderstandtheunspokenexpectationsofit:theweightofmotherhoodthatseemstobeever-presentthroughoutourentirelivesfromtheverymomentwe’regivenourfirstdoll.Notonlythat,butbecauseofthejudgmentthatemanatesfromothersoncewemakeadecisionofourown,oftentimes,wefeellikewecan’teventalkaboutit.
Wefeelcompletelyaloneinanexperiencethat’ssharedbysomany.
WhenIcametothatrealization,Ijustwantedtostuffthisbookfullofdifferenttypesofwomen:flawed,complicated,messywomenwhowillsurelydrawscornfortheirvariousdecisions—butreally,that’sthepoint.Isabelleis,inmanyways,myattemptatshowcasingthedamagesocietalpressuresandexpectationscanhaveonasingleperson.Isshetheperfectmother?No.Anddoesshemakemistakes?Yes.Shestruggles,asdoallmothers,andfeelsextremeguiltoverthoughtsandemotionsthatshedoesn’tevenknowarenormal—buthowcouldsheknowifnobodyevertalksaboutit?Despiteitall,though,sheloveshersonfiercely—however,thatlovewillneverbeenoughtosaveherinthecourtofpublicopinion…oreveninherownmind,forthatmatter,soaccustomedisshetoabsorbingeveryoneelse’sblame.
WhenitcomestoIsabelle’smother,Itriedtotreadlightlyandrespectfullyonatopicsofragile.Ididalotofresearchonpostpartumpsychosis,andthecharacterofElizabethwasinformed,inlargepart,byAndreaYates.ThemoreIreadabouther,themoreheractionsshiftedinmymindfromhorrifyingtoheartbreaking:Shewasamotherattheendofhermentalrope.Sheaskedforhelp,neverreceivedit,andwasvillainizedforwhathappenedasaresult.Ofcourse,whatshedidwasbothtragicandterrifying—butatthesametime,itcouldhavebeenavoided,too,ifonlythementalhealthofmotherswasn’tsomethingwesoeasilyshruggedofforpretendednottonotice.ThesamecanbesaidforElizabeth.
Allison,Valerie,Kasey,andAbigailarealsowomeninthisstorywithcomplicatedemotionsthatleadtotheirownvaryingdecisions:goodandbad,rightandwrong—butmostly,Ithink,somewhereinthemurkymiddle.Inreallife,wearesorarelyaffordedtheluxuryofthingsbeinginsimpleblackandwhite,soItrytostaytruetothatinmystories,too,bymakingeachcharacterasmultifacetedaspossible.Forthatreason,Ihopetheyinspiresomeenlighteningconversation—or,attheveryleast,gaveyouanentertainingread.
Finally,ifyouareconcernedaboutyourownmentalhealthorthementalhealthofalovedone,pleaseknowthatthereareresourcesavailabletohelp.AgoodplacetostartwouldbetheNationalInstituteofMentalHealthwebsite:www.nimh.nih.gov/health/find-help.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
IhaveacomplicatedrelationshipwiththeAcknowledgmentspage.
Ontheonehand,Ilovenothingmorethancallingattentiontothemany,manypeoplewhoplayaroleinbringingabooktolife.IneverknewhowmuchofateameffortpublishingabooktrulywasbeforeIenteredthisindustry,andletmetellyou:itfeelsdownrightdishonesttoonlylistonenameonthecover.Butontheotherhand,itisimpossibletolisteverysinglename,anditpainsmetothinkthatI’mleavingsomeoneout—so,withthatsaid:Pleaseknow,whoeveryouare,thatifyoutouchedthisstoryinanyway,Iamincrediblygrateful.
Tomyagent,DanConaway:Thisstorywouldn’texistwithoutyou.Youchangedmylifeandgavemethefreedomtokeepwriting.Thankyousomuchforthat.
ToChaimLipskar,PeggyBoulos-Smith,MajaNikolic,JessicaBerger,KateBoggs,andeveryoneelseatWritersHouse:YoucontinuetobeamazingandIconsidermyselfsoluckytobeinyourcompany.Thankyouforallyourhardwork.
Tomyeditor,KelleyRagland:Thankyousomuchforeveryconversationthathelpedtosteerthisstoryontherighttrack.ToAllisonZiegler,SarahMeInyk,HectorDeJean,MadelineHoupt,PaulHochman,DavidRotstein,andeveryoneelseatMinotaur,St.Martin’sPublishingGroup,andMacmillan:Thankyouforyourtirelessefforts.AmassivethanksalsogoesouttoAndyMartinandJenEnderlinforgivingmethechance.
TomyUKeditor,JuliaWisdom,andallofthefolksoveratHarperCollinsUK,includingbutnotlimitedtoLizzBurrell,SusannaPeden,andMaddyMarshall:Thankyousomuchforbringinganotheroneofmybooks—andme!—overseas.It’sadreamcometrue.
Tomyfilmagent,SylvieRabineau,atWME:Thankyouforeverythingyoudotobringmystoriestothescreen.Iamsothrilledtobeworkingtogetheragain.
Tothelibrarians,booksellers,bloggers,reviewers,bookstagrammers,bookclubs,andtheonlinereadingcommunity:Idon’tevenknowwhattosay.WhenIwaswritingtheacknowledgmentsforAFlickerintheDark,Ididn’tyetunderstandthemassiveinfluenceyouallwouldhaveonmyworkandmylife.Thistimearound,Iunderstand—andIamsograteful.Thankyouforembracingmywriting,stories,andcharacters;thankyouforsharingthebooksyoulovewithothersandforallowingmetoconnectwithsomanywonderfulreadersallovertheworld.Iowesomuchtoallofyou,sothankyou.
Toindependentbookstoreseverywhere,especiallyBuxtonBooks,ItinerantLiterate,andTheVillageBooksellerrighthereinCharleston:Thankyouforliftingupalocalwhogrewupdreamingofonedayseeingmynameonshelveslikeyours.
Tomyhusband,Britt:Ithoughtyouweresupportivethefirsttimearound,buttheselasttwelvemonthshaveshownmehowtrulyluckyIam.Thankyouforsupportingme,nomatterwhat,andforalwaysbeingdownforanadventure.Iloveyousomuch.
Tomyparents,KevinandSue,forcontinuingtobemynumberonefans.Pleasedon’tthinkmyfascinationwithdysfunctionalfamilieshasanythingtodowithourown.
Tomysister,Mallory,foronceagaingivingmethemostvaluablefeedbackonthatbadfirstdraft.GrowingupwithyougavemethesistermemoriesIneededtomakethisstorycomealive.Thankyouforlettingmefollowyouthroughlifelikea(not-so-quiet)littleshadow.
ToBrian,Laura,Alvin,LindseyandMatt,andtherestofmywonderfulfamily:Thankyou,asalways,foryourenthusiasmandsupport.
Tomyfriends,nearandfar,whohaveencouragedmeconstantlyeversinceIsharedthisweirdsecretofmine:Thankyouforalwaysbeingthere.IwishIcouldnameyouall,butIfeeltheneedtoatleastnametheoneswhohavegoneaboveandbeyondtomakemefeelsupportedandloved:Rebekah,Caitlin,Ashley,Erin,Kolbie,Jeremy,Kaela,Justin,Tina,Noah,Eli,Laura,Abby,John,Bobby,Reid,Peter,Mégane,Jacqueline,andCaroline.
ToMako,forkeepingmecompany.
ToDouglas,fortheinspiration.
Andfinally,myreaders,towhomIowetheworld:IfyoupickedthisbookupafterAFlickerintheDark,thankyouforstickingwithme.Ifthiswasyourveryfirststoryofmine,thankyouforgivingmeachance.
ALSOBYSTACYWILLINGHAM
AFlickerintheDark
ABOUTTHEAUTHOR
STACYWILLINGHAMistheNewYorkTimesandUSATodaybestsellingauthorofAFlickerintheDark.Beforeturningtofiction,shewasacopywriterandbrandstrategistforvariousmarketingagenciesandearnedherB.A.inmagazinejournalismfromtheUniversityofGeorgiaandM.F.A.inwritingfromtheSavannahCollegeofArtandDesign.Herworkhasbeentranslatedinoverthirtycountries.ShecurrentlylivesinCharleston,SouthCarolina,withherhusband,Britt,andLabradoodle,Mako,wheresheisalwaysworkingonhernextbook.Youcansignupforemailupdateshere
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Thisisaworkoffiction.Allofthecharacters,organizations,andeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.
FirstpublishedintheUnitedStatesbyMinotaurBooks,animprintofSt.Martin’sPublishingGroup
ALLTHEDANGEROUSTHINGS.Copyright?2023byStacyWillingham.Allrightsreserved.Forinformation,addressSt.Martin’sPublishingGroup,120Broadway,NewYork,NY10271.
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FirstEdition:2023
CONTENTS
TitlePage
CopyrightNotice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
ChapterTwenty-Four
ChapterTwenty-Five
ChapterTwenty-Six
ChapterTwenty-Seven
ChapterTwenty-Eight
ChapterTwenty-Nine
ChapterThirty
ChapterThirty-One
ChapterThirty-Two
ChapterThirty-Three
ChapterThirty-Four
ChapterThirty-Five
ChapterThirty-Six
ChapterThirty-Seven
ChapterThirty-Eight
ChapterThirty-Nine
ChapterForty
ChapterForty-One
ChapterForty-Two
ChapterForty-Three
ChapterForty-Four
ChapterForty-Five
ChapterForty-Six
ChapterForty-Seven
ChapterForty-Eight
ChapterForty-Nine
ChapterFifty
ChapterFifty-One
ChapterFifty-Two
ChapterFifty-Three
ChapterFifty-Four
ChapterFifty-Five
ChapterFifty-Six
ChapterFifty-Seven
ChapterFifty-Eight
ChapterFifty-Nine
ChapterSixty
ChapterSixty-One
Author’sNote
Acknowledgments
AlsobyStacyWillingham
AbouttheAuthor
Copyright
© Copyright Notice
The copyright of the article belongs to the author. Please do not reprint without permission.
THE END
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