Chapter 87
I swing the rod as they draw close. It’s an unwieldy weapon and hard to aim, but I land a glancing blow on Dawn, who yelps and jumps back, almost bumping into Jamie.
“Get the hell away from me,” I screech and swing again, wielding it like a baseball bat. The rod slices through empty air, missing them both.
Jamie dodges to one side and grasps the rod, tries to tear it from my hands. I hold on tight, but the rod is smooth and slips through my fingers. He tosses it aside with a triumphant cry and lunges forward, grabbing my arm.
I twist free and shove Jamie aside, then try to sidestep him and make a break for the door.
But Dawn blocks my path. She delays me just long enough for Jamie to regain his balance.
He makes a grab for me, which I manage to evade, but it drives me toward Dawn, who wraps her arms around my waist and holds on tight.
I claw and twist, trying to break free. Her grip loosens.
I take hold of her wrist and try to wrench her arm.
The sleeve of her sweater rides up. My fingers touch something cold and hard.
Metallic. A bracelet. But not just any bracelet.
The silver Tiffany bracelet Sam gave me with the angel charm.
The opal birthstone in the angel’s hands shimmers an iridescent rainbow of colors.
“My bracelet.” I spit the words even as I try to snatch it from her wrist, because I don’t want my most cherished piece of jewelry—a piece that I thought was stolen and lost forever—on the arm of this psychotic bitch.
A white-hot rage consumes me, because I realize what this means.
Catherine and the other residents of the Glendale were manipulating Sam and me long before we ever moved into this building.
They must have been behind the robbery at our apartment in Jamaica Plain, and I’ll bet they also wrecked Sam’s credit. All to steer us to the Glendale.
“It’s my bracelet now.” Dawn wraps her other arm around me as Jamie grabs me from behind, and together they drag me from the room and through the dilapidated apartment.
When we reach the hallway, I see Catherine and the others waiting there, all wearing blue neoprene gloves, of the sort used in a doctor’s office or hospital, no doubt provided by Burgess.
Angelo is among them. His face is bloodied, nose crooked.
He glowers at me, his eyes flashing with malice.
I notice that Jennifer is not with them, and Frank is standing with his shoulders slumped, a sour look on his face.
I also notice that Catherine has a gun, but it’s not the same one they gave Jennifer. I suspect this pistol is loaded.
“Bring her back upstairs,” Catherine orders in a humorless tone. “It’s time to finish this.”
The doctor steps forward, and for a moment I think he’s going to drug me again, but instead he grabs my arm, taking over for Dawn. They pull me toward the waiting elevator, easily thwarting my struggles, and then we’re on our way up to the fourth floor.
When we reach the apartment, they sit me in a chair and Kalina goes to the kitchen island, where an open bottle of wine is waiting. She pours a large glass and offers it to me.
“Drink this.”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing anything for you.”
“We can do this easy or hard.” Catherine levels the gun at me. “Your choice.”
“You won’t shoot me. It will mess up your plan,” I say with false bravado, because inside I’m jelly. “And good luck explaining it to the police.”
Catherine shrugs. “You wouldn’t be the first person we’ve shot, and the police believed what we wanted them to. Guns are the leading cause of suicide deaths in this country. We stage it right, no one will bat an eyelid.”
“Especially since your behavior has been so erratic over the last few weeks,” Dawn says. “You even kicked your fiancé out because you thought he was having an affair, which of course was totally untrue. Talk about paranoid.”
Kalina pushes the glass into my hand. “Now drink.”
I look up at the faces of my neighbors and supposed friends, and at the gun Catherine is pointing at me. Left with little choice, I lift the glass to my lips and swig the wine.