Chapter 23
Inside the post office, the women are waiting again. Now they are bringing in Tommy’s dad’s dog so Tommy can see him. Blythe
doesn’t know how this will help anything, but she is not a negotiator, so she assumes there is a purpose in it, a plan that
will lead to them all being freed. She gets that he wants to see the dog. He obviously has some emotional attachment to it,
which she understands more than anyone in the room. She would do just about anything to see Murphy one more time. She feels
tears prick the corners of her eyes and blinks them back. She will not think of Murphy now.
Her eyes stray to the counter where Tommy is hovering, using his fingers to drum out a beat. He is keeping away from the windows
but still monitors law enforcement’s movements from afar, occasionally peering over the partition behind him to make sure
no one is attempting to access the back. Tommy stops drumming, stares at the poster of the USPS logo for a moment. She watches
him looking at the poster and wonders what he is thinking. Is he thinking that his wife knew more about that logo than anyone
else in the room? Is he thinking that he hasn’t given her enough credit? Is he thinking about how that eagle is looking forward,
but because of what he has done today, he doesn’t have much to look forward to? Is he even capable of such deep thoughts?
Blythe doubts it.
When he looks away from the poster, his eyes flicker across her, but she pretends not to notice, looking down at the fabric of her jeans, focusing on how many different variations of blue are woven together.
She pretends to be absorbed in her jeans when really what she wants is to get her phone back and see if Bryan has texted her again, even though she should not care.
Bryan is not Aaron. Aaron is her fiancé.
If she’s thinking of anyone, it should be Aaron.
She decides not to think about either of them until she gets out of here.
She heard a long time ago never to make a big decision when you’re hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. Right now she is all of the above.
She looks up to see that Tommy has gone back to rummaging through the mail, the things other people carried in here today,
dropped off, and left behind without a moment’s thought, never appreciating how close they came to being held captive. If
Blythe had run her errands in a different order, if she’d left instead of waiting in line when it was taking too long, if
she’d never let her mom plant this crazy idea in her head in the first place . . . She decides not to think of the what-ifs.
It is what it is. She is here; she is trapped. She looks around at her fellow hostages. They all are.
All of a sudden Tommy lets out a whoop and stands up, holding the bottle of liquor aloft, his eyes dancing as he unscrews
the cap with a flourish and tilts it to his lips. The four women watch him, their faces impassive. To react, they all seem
to understand, would only be to fuel him further.
Not getting the attention he wants, Tommy makes a big smacking sound with his lips. “That hits the spot right there!” he says.
Still none of them respond. He takes another dramatic sip, and then, in what can only be a desperate attempt to get their attention, he slams the bottle down hard on the counter.
Too hard. It is not the sound of the bottle making contact with the counter that makes them all look up, though.
It is the sound of the bottle cracking, of the liquid spilling out onto the counter and running over onto the floor.
They all watch, Tommy in horror and the four women with barely disguised glee, as amber rivulets stream out like tributaries.
They sneak glances at one another, smirking as Tommy stalks around cursing a blue streak.
“You should probably get something to clean that up with,” says Nadine. “There’s paper towels underneath the counter.” Her
voice is as impassive as when she explained what the logo meant. “And you’d better be careful picking up that glass,” she
adds, pointing at the windows. “If you cut yourself, you’ll have to get those EMTs out there to come in here and give you
stitches.” A full grin breaks out on her face, then they hear her snicker, and the sound makes them all snicker too. In seconds
they are all chuckling, though they try to hide it.
This makes Tommy even angrier. He flails his arms in the air. “You’d better get over here and help me. Every last one of you’d
better stop laughing and come clean this up.”
Nadine crosses her arms and keeps her seat. “What are you gonna do about it if we don’t, Tommy? Shoot us? I can just hear
it now when the police question you. So why’d you do it, Tommy? Why’d you shoot those four innocent women in cold blood? And
your answer will be—lemme make sure I get this straight: ‘They wouldn’t help me clean up a mess I made.’”
“Innocent women,” scoffs Tommy. “I doubt that.” He crouches back down and peers under the cabinet, looking for the paper towels.
He pops back up and tears off far more paper towels than needed for the task, balling them up and swiping at the mess, taking his anger out on it, which only serves to send the rivulets wider.
Somehow they all know not to laugh as the alcohol spreads.
He looks up when the room goes quiet, his gaze sweeping across all four faces, his own face like stone, his eyes gone flat
in his head. No one speaks as Tommy cleans up his mess, picking up the broken pieces of glass. Then standing over the bin,
he drops them one by one. Plink, plink, plink. It is the only sound in the room. When he is done with his task, he goes back to the counter and stares down at the spot
where the bottle was.
He looks up and their eyes meet again. Blythe looks away as fast as she can, but it is too late—a connection has been made,
like the worst bully in the schoolyard singling you out. She sees his eyes spark.
“Hey,” he says to her. “Weren’t you the one mailing something when I came back in here?”
Blythe’s heart begins to gallop in her chest. No, she thinks. Involuntarily her head begins to shake in the same direction as her thoughts.
He smirks at her. “Sure you were. I remember.” He swipes his finger back and forth in the air. “You looked upset about whatever
it was.” He smiles, happy because they’re no longer laughing at him. Happy because he can turn the spotlight of shame on someone
else.
He begins to paw through the cart that holds the collected mail. “It was a box wrapped in brown paper,” he says, pretending
to talk to himself but taunting her nonetheless. “I just need to look for the return address with your name on it, Blythe.” He has been paying attention.
Blythe doesn’t like her name in Tommy’s mouth.
It makes her nervous and nauseous at the same time.
Her hands go to the stool. She grips it at the edges, clings to it tightly, the rim of the steel digging into her fingers.
The pain helps her not to think about the inevitability of what Tommy is doing.
She looks toward the door, no longer barricaded but locked.
She sees Nadine see her looking for an escape.
Nadine presses her mouth into a thin straight line as she shakes her head, a reminder. There is nothing they can do. Yet.
From her seat Nadine considers extracting the keys from her pocket and rushing for the door. With his attention focused elsewhere,
she might be able to get there and get the door open in time. But would they all get out before he fired that gun again? Would
he fire at them? In her mind she hears the bullet hitting the exit sign, the broken fragments raining to the ground where
she stood. He’d fired high. He’d missed. But would he miss again?
She never would’ve thought Tommy was capable of shooting anyone, especially not after he’d lost his father to a gunshot. But
Tommy had changed after his father died. “He’s not handling it well,” she would tell friends and family by way of explanation.
But that barely scraped the surface of what became of Tommy. The loss had decimated him. She thinks of the obituary for Thomas
Sr. “He is survived by his only son,” it said.
But it seemed to Nadine that Tommy had not survived his father’s death. Some huge part of him had died too. For months she
thought of ending the marriage, then felt guilty, then felt she had to leave, then wondered what kind of wife would leave
someone in the throes of grief. The emotions swirled, a whirling dervish of feelings.
Tommy finds the package, because of course he would.
It was only a matter of time. Nadine recalls the way Blythe had teared up as she handed her the package.
Nadine had pretended not to notice, but she knows, as Tommy holds up the package, that whatever is in that box is important, and personal.
Tommy has no right. But Tommy has no right to do anything he’s done today.
Nadine remembers standing in front of the preacher, exchanging their vows nearly four years ago, remembers the promises they’d
made to each other. For months she’s carried around the guilt of not keeping those promises. But Tommy broke his promises
too. He stopped being the man she’d made the promises to. Maybe, if they make it out of here, people will start to understand
that she only did what she had to do. The truth, the whole truth, she thinks, can finally come out.
Tommy strides over to Blythe, waving the package around as he proclaims, “Lookee what I have here.”
As she watches him, Nadine feels a revulsion unlike anything she’s ever felt. In the past year she’s disliked him. She’s pitied
him. She’s loved him. She’s wanted to slap him. But in this moment, as he dangles the package just out of Blythe’s reach,
delighting as she grabs for it and misses, she truly hates him. She rises from her seat, ready to intervene. Sylvie and Morrow
stand as well.