I Will Ruin You

Twenty-Six

On my way to the Sycamore Drive address Belinda had given, I thought about what Grace Reynolds had revealed to me.

Her husband Anson had been depressed for some time. He’d been good, she said, at not showing it at work, but outside of school he was a man tormented by private demons. She’d urged him to seek help, to talk to someone, anyone, but he said he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

“You’ve no idea what was troubling him?” I asked.

She had shaken her head sadly. “You read stories all the time about people, like these big celebrities who you think have everything, but they’re miserable. There doesn’t have to be a reason.”

Unless there was.

When Grace wasn’t home, he’d started up the car in the garage with the doors closed, and sat behind the wheel until he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. Before dying, he’d paid off the monthly bills, changed the batteries in all the smoke detectors, and fixed a plugged drain in the kitchen that he’d been meaning to get to. He hadn’t, Grace said, wanted her to have to deal with any of the everyday stuff in the days and weeks after his passing.

She hadn’t wanted the world to know how he’d gone, and the various authorities acceded to her request to say he had passed of “heart failure.” She didn’t even think Trent knew how he had actually died.

I thanked her for her time and the coffee, told her I would think about whether I had the time to come back and search through those boxes in the second bedroom for Anson’s lesson plans, and caught a glimpse of her knocking back that drink as I was showing myself out.

And now I was on Sycamore. The Finster house.

It was a modest bungalow with an attached garage. As I did a slow drive-by, I saw that all the drapes were drawn, the grass needed cutting, and there was a for sale sign on the lawn. There were some flyers sticking out of a jammed mailbox by the front door.

The place did not look lived-in at all.

I went to the end of the street, turned around, drove past the house once more, then pulled over to the shoulder and parked. I got out and walked up to the house one door over from the Finster house and rang the bell.

A harried-looking woman in her twenties, balancing a baby on her hip, appeared after about thirty seconds. “Yes?” she said, opening the screen a foot.

“I was looking for the Finsters,” I said. “Is that their place next door? Up for sale?”

“Yeah, well, it was,” she said, shifting the baby to her other hip. “First Mr. Finster died about three years back, then Mrs. Finster. But they didn’t own the house, they rented. Owner had it on the market awhile, hasn’t rented it out to anyone else.”

“I was looking for Billy,” I said.

“Billy?” she said, and blushed. “Him and me actually went out for a while there, back in the day, but he got married to someone used to be a friend of mine.” The emphasis on “used to be” suggested this friend might have had something to do with her breaking up with Billy.

“You know where they live now?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Finster’s house was a small one-story on Wooster, a few blocks from the Housatonic River. Gray siding, black shutters, a separate garage toward the back of the property at the end of the driveway. A small silver Kia was parked on the driveway, closer to the street. As I passed, I held up my phone and fired off a few shots. When I reached the top of the street I made a right onto Windy Hill Road, pulled over, and stopped. I wanted to check the pictures I’d taken, making sure I’d captured decent images of the house and the car and its license plate. I didn’t know that I had a use for them, but if I came up with one, I was ahead of the game.

I made a loop around the block so I could drive by one more time. I was three houses away when I spotted a woman coming out the front door. I pulled over to the side. There were no sidewalks, so I rolled onto the edge of a front yard and stopped.

The woman was probably about the same age as Finster. Five-three, slender, blond hair down to her shoulders. She walked purposefully to the Kia, got in, and when she backed out of the drive she had the car pointed in my direction. I glanced down, as if dealing with my phone. I raised my head once she’d passed and caught a glimpse of the car in my rearview mirror.

Billy’s wife, I presumed. Maybe the blackmail was all her idea. Anything was possible.

Someone rapped hard on the passenger window. A woman, mid-seventies, glasses, gray hair pulled back, looking very pissed.

I powered down the window.

“You’re parked on my goddamn grass,” she said.

I gave her a nod, edged the car’s right side back onto the asphalt, and that must have satisfied her, because I glanced around and she had disappeared.

There didn’t seem to be much point in hanging around any longer. I now knew where Billy Finster lived.

My phoned dinged. I took it out of my pocket and saw that it was from Bonnie.

Have some good news.

Well, I could use some of that. I was about to reply when I heard the back door on the passenger side open. The car listed slightly as someone dropped into the backseat. As I turned in my seat, the back door slammed shut.

It was him.

And if I hadn’t been so caught off guard I might have had time to react more quickly to the fist heading straight toward my face. I had just enough time to turn so that I took the hit on my temple, immediately to the side of my right eye, instead of my nose.

I let out a yelp of pain and reared back.

“Stalking me?” he asked, and made a sniffing noise.

I put my hand on the side of my head. Christ, it hurt. I glanced in the mirror, its letterboxed shape acting like a mask for my attacker, giving me a view of his eyes and nose, which he wiped with a tissue.

“Billy, listen,” I said, my temple throbbing.

“Our arrangement’s changed,” he said. “I was going to give you more time. But I want the money tonight.”

“Fuck you.”

“I get the money,” he repeated, “or everybody knows. Get ready for some breaking news, asshole. Perv teacher! Film at eleven!”

“I didn’t do it,” I said. “I swear. It had to be somebody else.”

Was it fair to the dead to ask if he remembered Anson Reynolds? I had no proof it was him, but a man who felt badly enough to take his own life might have been wanting to punish himself for something he shouldn’t have done.

“Did you have a teacher named Mr. Reynolds?” I asked.

“What?”

“Anson Reynolds. Taught gym. Coached wrestling.” I had another name in the back of my mind. “Or maybe Mr. Willow.”

He leaned forward so his mouth was close to my ear. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Teacher. It really doesn’t matter whether it was you or not. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. All I care about right now is my ten grand.”

“Christ, Billy, once you expose me with your bullshit,” I said, “you’re exposed. They’ll look into your background. Maybe you’ve pulled this kind of shit before.”

“Not if it’s anonymous,” he whispered.

“I’ll say it was you,” I said.

“And how will you explain that? Only way you could know it was me would be if you did it.”

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

“So you better get my money,” he said.

I recalled the text Jack had sent. He had the cash.

There had to be a way out of this. If I brought him the money, if I had someone with me, someone who could be a witness, someone—

“You hear me?” he said.

“I hear you.”

“Give me your cell number. I’ll be in touch about when and where.”

I gave him the number, heard him enter it into his phone, then the opening of the back door.

“Later, asshole,” he said, slamming it shut.

I was in free fall.

Panic welled up inside me. I didn’t know what to do other than pay this man and hope to God that was the end of it. I’d been a fool to think knowing where he lived would afford me some advantage. He’d turned the tables on me. Caught me in the act.

I drove quickly out of the neighborhood, my tail between my legs. Moments later I wheeled into a McDonald’s parking lot to pull myself together. A glance in the mirror revealed that my right temple was already turning black and blue. My vision was not affected, but my eyelid was slightly swollen.

How was I going to explain that when I got home?

After about five minutes, I pulled back out into traffic and aimed the car for home. Once on our street, I saw Jack’s vehicle in his driveway. I’d be able to get the money from him before I went into the house and faced Bonnie and Rachel. I had my car parked and was heading for Jack’s front door when Bonnie came striding out of the house.

“Hey,” she said. “I’m glad you’re—”

The second she saw my face, she stopped. “Oh my God, what happened to you?” she asked. She reached her hand up, as if she were going to touch the right side of my face, but held back.

“I need to get some ice on it,” I said. “If it’s not too late.”

“What happened?” she asked again.

“Stupidest thing,” I said. I’d been rehearsing this in the car. “I was making a shortcut through the gym, walked right into the path of a basketball. Got whomped good. Kid could really throw.”

Bonnie looked unconvinced. “A ball did that?”

“He’s got an arm on him.”

She examined the bruising more carefully. “Looks more like someone took a swing at you.”

I said, a little too brusquely, “It’s nothing, okay?”

Bonnie took a step back. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“Nothing. Look, find me an ice pack, I’ll be in in a minute.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just going to see Jack for a second.”

Bonnie’s face froze. “About that.”

“What?”

“When I texted? When I said I had news?”

“Yeah?”

“You already know, but I talked to Arthur after he talked to you. They’ll cover your legal bills. They’ll get you a lawyer. The lawsuit’s bullshit. And honestly, if they didn’t support you, and it went public, the blowback would be significant.” She made quote marks with her fingers, like she was reading a headline. “Hero Teacher Screwed Over by Union.”

“All good, I guess.” That fucking Arthur. I was going to tell Bonnie I was on my own, that I still needed the money.

“So you don’t need to sell the boat.” She smiled. “Simple as that.”

“Great, but I made a deal with Jack and I don’t intend to break it.”

“I already have,” Bonnie said.

For a second there, the world was spinning.

“What?”

“I talked to him,” she said. “I explained things.”

“Explained things how?”

“I told him why you thought you needed the money and now you don’t. That selling the boat was a hasty, impulsive decision at a time when you’ve been under so much stress. He totally understood. He was fine with it.” She paused, and then, with a hint of attitude, said, “You’re welcome.”

I had put both hands atop my head. I turned away from her, pacing.

“Shit,” I said. “Shit shit shit.”

I brought my hands down, turned and faced her, shaking my head from side to side. “You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have done that without talking to me first.”

“Oh, so you’re the one who has to be consulted, but not me.”

“Fuck!” I said. “Did he have the cash?” Almost without even realizing it, I had put my hand on my chest, trying to slow my heart down. “Did he have it on him? He said he was going to have it.”

“Yes, he had it! And I told him to keep it!”

I made a move in the direction of Jack’s place and Bonnie grabbed my arm, stopping me. “No,” she said.

I shook her arm off. “You don’t know what you’ve done.” I was starting to tremble. I could feel sweat bubbling up on my forehead.

“If I don’t know, then maybe you’d better explain it to me. Maybe you better tell me what the fuck is really going on.”

“I’m handling it,” I told her. “I’ve got it under control!”

“Handling what, for God’s sake? Are you gambling? You don’t even buy scratch tickets. What the hell is it?” Suddenly her face fell, imagining the worst. “It’s not a woman. Tell me it’s got nothing to do with another woman.”

“For fuck’s sake, Bonnie,” I said, exhausted.

“If you won’t tell me what’s going on, don’t blame me for thinking the worst.”

I had to get the money. I had to tell Jack that Bonnie didn’t know what she was doing. He’d think we were both nuts, but so long as I got the cash, I was confident I could resolve this mess.

I didn’t know what else to do.

“Trust me,” I said, but the words barely came out. My breathing was quick and shallow. Something was wrong.

Bonnie shook her head. “No, I can’t.” She raised a finger, pointed it at me. “If you don’t tell me why you need that ten thousand dollars, right now, right this second, I’m going in that house, packing two bags, and Rachel and I are going to a hotel. We’re leaving. I’m dead serious. It’s up to you. Make a choice. Tell me what’s happening, or say goodbye to us.”

I took three wavering steps toward my car, put a hand on the front fender to steady myself, and said, “I think I’m going to pass out.”