Chapter 36
I’m back in my room, sitting on my bed, gazing out the window.
I’ve bought myself a little time, a few days at the most, but then what?
I gnaw on a fingernail. Maybe I should go back to Erin’s house.
If she’s been found, the police will be there threading yellow tape around her house.
But if she hasn’t been found… maybe I could figure out a way in and get my wedding band back.
Except with my luck lately, the police will walk in just when I’m rolling her corpse over in case she’s lying on top of my ring.
I need to pull myself together. So what if they find my wedding band. Why would they link it to me?
Because it’s a very expensive wedding band, gold with pavé diamonds, and it’s going to take them five minutes to find out it came from Tiffany’s, and Tiffany’s will have receipts, and it will take the police five more minutes to get Roy’s name.
Also, it so happens that Roy’s wife is missing hers.
I fall backward on my bed. I need to think. Where could it be? I close my eyes, my hand over them. Maybe my ring came off when I wiped my hand with the tea towel. I sit up so fast I see spots.
The tea towel.
I was going to throw it away somewhere on the way home, but then I forgot, which means it’s still in Roy’s pocket.
I’m going to be sick. Did Roy put on his leather jacket when he left just now? Oh God. I hope not.
I fly down the stairs, fling open the closet door, and almost weep with relief. The jacket is there. I burrow into the pocket and retrieve the trash-can liner. I run back up the stairs.
In the bathroom, I empty the liner onto the tile floor, unspool the tea towel and shake it.
My ring isn’t there.
I scrunch up the tea towel and put it in the liner. I retrieve the jeans I was wearing and hold them up, studying the crescent of blood on the knees. In other circumstances, I would soak them in cold water with a splash of vinegar and a pinch of baking soda, but then, they’re jeans.
I ball them up and shove them into the trash-can liner with the tea towel. Then I go outside, making sure Marie doesn’t see me, and drop the bag in the trash, using a dead branch to move the bags around so mine sinks to the bottom. It’s trash night tonight, so it’ll be gone by tomorrow.
I close the trash can, and I’m about to go back in when I hear a shout.
“Where is it! What did you do with it?”
It sounds like an out-of-tune trumpet, which means it must be Meredith. I stand on my toes to peer over the hedge, but it’s too tall.
Then I hear a long scream, like a wail.
I walk through the gap in the fence, around the ficus hedge and through the back garden and to Meredith’s back door.
It’s closed but unlocked, so I walk in and find Meredith in the hall, bent over a boy with dark curly hair and big brown eyes.
She’s holding him by the earlobe, shouting right into his ear, her mouth so close she looks like she’s trying to eat it.
“I know it’s you, you little shit! Where is it?”
The boy—Mikey, I assume, Dolores’s son—is crying, wailing strangely. He looks up at me with panic in his eyes.
“He’s deaf,” I say, as if she didn’t know that.
She looks up. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Back door,” I say. “And you’re making a lot of noise.”
“He’s a thief!” she barks. “He stole my pearl brooch.”
I pat the pocket of my skirt, the same skirt I wore two days ago.
“Pearl brooch?”
“Yes. It was in the bowl over there.” She points her chin to the bowl in question.
“Let me have—”
“I won’t have a thief in my house, you understand? Where is it, you little piece of shit?”
I was going to say, “a look,” but she’s gone back to shouting into the boy’s ear like it’s a bullhorn, drowning my words, before raising her other hand high, palm open.
I am nine years old. My mother just slapped me so hard my head is spinning.
It’s because I am wearing a barrette in my hair, thin and shiny with diamonds—not real ones, obviously.
Still, it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.
My mother wants to know where I stole it from.
When I tell her I found it on the ground outside Mrs. Donnelly’s corner store, she slaps me again.
I’m not lying, I say. I did find it. I even went inside the store to ask Mrs. Donnelly if it was hers but she shrugged and said no, so I pocketed it.
My mother takes it from me and shoves it in the trash.
“Liar,” she says. “I’m not,” I cry. “Shut up!” she says, and slaps me one more time for good measure.
Something is pulling at the back of my shirt, dragging me back.
A strange wailing envelops the room, and that’s when I realize I am not nine years old, but I am holding Meredith upright against the wall, just with the sheer force of my good hand around her neck.
She claws at it, her feet inches from the floor, flapping around like she’s a ballerina skittering across the stage in quick, pointy steps.
Or like she’s drowning. Behind me, Mikey is trying to pull me by the waist, screaming Nooo in his own strange wail, and that’s when I also realize that Meredith’s face has turned purple and her eyes are glassy with terror.
I let go and she flops to the floor, coughing, her hand pawing at her throat.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I say as if that explained everything. “Are you all right?”
She’s still coughing. She manages to scramble upright. “I’m calling the police,” she croaks.
“Yes. You do that. Make sure to tell them you assaulted a little boy and that you’ve got a witness and you’re turning yourself in.”
She looks at me with fire in her eyes, leaning against the wall, still catching her breath.
“Let’s have a look,” I say, going over to the bowl. I surreptitiously take out the brooch from my pocket where it’s been for two days and pretend to pull it out of the bowl.
“This one?”
Her eyes grow wide. “Where did you…”
“Right here, Meredith. Right where you said it was. Maybe you should get your eyes checked. Now say you’re sorry.”
“I… I’m sorry.”
“Not to me, Meredith. To Mikey.”
I glance around, looking for him, and find that he’s behind me. Also that my arm is on his back, like I’m keeping him there.
I nudge him forward gently.
“We’re waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” she croaks.
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, Mikey.”
“Good. Okay. And Meredith, just so we’re clear, if you lay one finger on this boy, I will kill you.
You understand? Because honestly, at this point, it won’t make any difference to me.
So I want you to be nice to Dolores and to Mikey, and again, not to labor the point, but one hair, Meredith.
One hair out of place, and I will kill you.
Also, don’t tell Roy. Or anyone. Because I will kill you for that, too. ”
Her eyes are wide with absolute terror. She tells me that yes, she understands, and no, she won’t breathe a word to anyone, and also that she will be nice to Mikey and Dolores.
I turn around and ask Mikey, making sure to enunciate the words, hoping he can read my lips. “Are you okay?”
He nods, his little body still shuddering. How old did Dolores say he was? Eleven? He looks very small for eleven, and skinny too. But then, what do I know about children?
I straighten and turn back to Meredith, who is shaking, her back and arms flat against the wall like a cartoon character.
“Where is Dolores?” I ask.
She blinks, her lips moving. Finally, she says, “Out, running errands.”
“And you waited until she was out to treat her little boy like that?” I click my tongue, shake my head. “One hair, Meredith.”