Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Years earlier . . .
* * *
Gloria Gray struggled with three bags of groceries and her keys, then bit back a scream when her apartment door opened from the inside because some bitch was in her goddamned entryway.
“Let me help you with those,” the stranger said, then grabbed two grocery bags, took a few steps back, and slung them into the kitchen. Didn’t even try to dump ’em on the counter.
Gloria was so pissed and bewildered, it took her a few seconds to lodge a protest. “What the fuck are you doing? There’s eggs in one of those bags!”
“There still are,” the stranger replied, eyeballing Gloria like they were gonna fight or fuck. Then she walked into the living room, dropped her pink-and-green tote bag at her feet, and made herself comfortable on the good chair.
“Bitch, you’ve got five seconds to get your narrow ass out of my apartment before I call the cops.”
“Excellent plan,” her uninvited guest replied.
She had boring hair, chalky skin, and skinny limbs like those scrawny models strutting down runways.
And weird eyes, so bloodshot they kinda looked red.
“And while we wait for the sound of sirens, we can discuss how you avoided indictment across several states for multiple counts of felony child abuse.”
Gloria stopped. Not just walking or reaching for her phone. Stopped thinking, stopped blinking. Her heart stopped. Her breath stopped. Everything just fuckin’ . . . went still.
After a long silence, the stranger said, “The number is nine-one-one. If you were trying to remember.”
Gloria realized she was gripping her phone so hard her fingers were going numb. “How—how did you know about that?”
“I worked in Fairview’s medical records department for five days.”
“You can’t do that! You can’t use your job to—to spy on innocent people.”
“Two counts of felony neglect and child endangerment.”
“I forgot my keys! That’s all that was.”
“You locked your eleven-year-old son outside because he forgot to do the dishes. At night. In Minnesota. In December.”
“He was fine! The doctors all said!”
“One count of misdemeanor malicious punishment of a child.”
“My husband did that, not me. How was I supposed to know Graham was in the basement for two whole nights?”
“Your testimony suggested otherwise. And he was four years old at the time. And the basement wasn’t soundproofed. You knew.”
“How the fuck did you get my testimony?”
“I worked for the Ramsey County courthouse for nine days. And Itasca. And Dakota. And those are just the ones in Minnesota. Three counts of felony child abuse. That was back in 2010. You gave him a concussion and broke two of his teeth.”
“Oh, for—they were baby teeth! Fuck’s sake!”
“Shut your mouth, Gloria. Or I’ll help myself to some of your teeth.”
Gloria shut her mouth. The last bag of groceries had gotten heavier than the world, somehow, so she shuffled into the kitchen to put it on the counter.
Took her time, too, put everything away nice and neat, even the booze, and emptied the dishwasher to boot, but the stranger was still sitting there when she returned to the living room.
“I don’t understand it,” the stranger said, like the conversation hadn’t stopped for ten minutes.
“I’ve been over it and over it. He’s wonderful in every way a human being can be wonderful.
He’s thoughtful and clever and fun and hygienic and a good cook and not exactly hard on the eyes and beautiful.
He is, somehow, the best. While you . . . ”
“I don’t—”
“What is wrong with you?”
What to say? Welp, got knocked up with Ginni in high school, married the twenty-five-year-old fuck-o who did it, tho’ I had to show him the DNA test first, got pregnant with Graham three months after Ginni was born, and she was dead before he started walking.
Found out I was in an “open marriage,” which meant my ex could cheat but not me.
Found out you don’t get alimony when you’re still married.
Found out he had no intention of helping.
Ever. With anything. Found out my family didn’t want to hear about any of it.
Found out the social services people did want to hear, but cared more about filling out forms than me or my kids. Kid, now.
My future was set a year before I could vote and it’s such a fucking cliché I can’t stand it. And I took it all out on my boy. And now I don’t see him or talk to him and that’s prob’ly for the best and I shouldn’t care but I do, a little.
“It just . . . all . . . got away from me.”
“A pity he could never get away from you. Whenever Child Protective Services got too snoopy, you bailed. You’d uproot him and lug him around like a plant you don’t like but feel compelled to keep because it was a gift.
Even so, I think your deeds would have caught up with you.
You are not a subtle woman. But your son wouldn’t cooperate with any of the investigations. ”
She’d been scared of the stranger, this judgy bitch lurking in her apartment for fuck knew how long.
Some of the fear had gone away when she realized the woman was young, maybe her son’s age?
But then her anxiety came roaring back, and Gloria couldn’t figure out why.
What, exactly, was there to be scared of?
If the stranger wanted cops, they’d be there.
If she wanted to pull a knife or a gun, she could have.
If she wanted to beat her up, she would’ve started already, not talked for-fucking-ever.
But she wasn’t doing any of that. She wasn’t making moves of any kind, much less grabbing for a weapon. Her voice just got colder and colder, and the tone, the temperature, it spread, somehow. How could she make Gloria cold from seven feet away?
“The worst, most dreadful part? Not the bruises or the concussion or the broken bones. Not the terror of being locked outside while two inches of snow fell and the wind chill dropped. None of that.”
“I don’t—”
“Your son didn’t lie to CPS because you threatened him. That’s the worst. He didn’t throw sand in the gears of every social worker for fear of you. Quite the opposite. He loved you. He didn’t want you to go to prison.”
“I know,” she said dully.
“And so here you are.”
“Yeah.”
“But I won’t have it, Gloria. I refuse.” The stranger clasped her hands together and hunched forward, like Mr. Burns with tits and hair.
“You’re too close, for one thing; you only live an hour away.
And he’s kind. Which is wonderful, when you think about it .
. . he’s kind, Gloria, because you and the abusive shit you married couldn’t brutalize his essential goodness away.
So if you were to call him for help—the only circumstance you would ever reach out, I imagine—he might feel compelled to act. ”
“I wouldn’t—I—I—”
“Which is entirely unacceptable.”
“No, you’ve got it all—”
“And so you’re leaving.”
“I can’t just—where would I even go?”
The stranger pulled a fat, legal-sized envelope out of her tote and threw it at Gloria. When she didn’t move to catch it, the envelope hit her chest and thumped to the carpet.
“Open it.”
She did. And stared at the contents.
A trick. Had to be.
“That’s twenty thousand dollars. More than enough for your credit card debt with plenty left over to cover your moving expenses.”
“I don’t get it.”
“No, you are getting it. That’s the point. The cash is yours, and every month you don’t contact your son, I’ll wire another two thousand to your bank account.”
“You . . . can do that?”
“Are you asking if I’m rich or if I temped at your bank to get all your account information?
The answer is yes. However. The minute—the second you break our deal, we’re done.
And not only does the money spigot close forever, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you stand trial for your monstrous actions. ”
“But you can’t—”
“The statute of limitations for felony child abuse won’t kick in until your son is dead. He can sue you and press charges anytime he likes. Sorry to keep cutting you off, but I hate the sound of your voice.”
“Did you take another temp job to learn that? About the limitations thing?”
“No, you worthless shitpile, I looked it up.”
Gloria let the envelope fall and thumbed one of the packets of cash while the stranger watched. “There’s gotta be a catch.”
The stranger rubbed her eyes and sighed. “You mean another catch, don’t you? Because most parents would assume cutting off all contact with their only living child to be a sizable catch. Two.”
“What?”
“Two states between you and your son at all times. Minimum. Big ones. Rhode Island and Delaware don’t count.
Neither do Massachusetts and Vermont. But wherever you go, if you’re only one state away, that’s a deal-breaker and you’d better get a phenomenal lawyer.
If Gray moves out of state, I’ll contact you and give you the new boundaries you will abide by. ”
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
The stranger stopped rubbing and glared red. “Nothing. I left my contacts at home and I’m getting a migraine. I wanted this meeting to be memorable, Gloria. Stamped on your brain for the rest of your life, so there are no misunderstandings, now or ever.”
“So you’re just gonna give me two grand a month forever? What if I live to be eighty?”
The stranger made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You won’t.”
“What?”
“Live to eighty. You’re waaaaaay off. Your son won’t, either.
That’s the other reason you need to get the hell gone.
If there are fewer than ninety miles between us, I might eventually give in to the urge to beat you to death.
I want to do that now, Gloria. I want to see if you’re an ugly crier.
I want to hurt you very, very much. And so you’re going. ”
Terror had shrunk the already tiny apartment to a pinhole. There wasn’t anything in her world except the stranger’s burning gaze.
Gloria bent, picked up the envelope, stuffed the cash back inside. “It wasn’t just me, y’know. I’m not making excuses . . .”
“Of course you are, you useless twat.”
Gloria felt her face get hotter and hotter, bit her lip, glared at the carpet. “I’m just saying, my ex-husband—”
“Oh. Him.” The stranger stood and speared Gloria with one more bloody glare. “He’s my next stop. I’m aware there is plenty of blame to go around.”
She left, and Gloria listened until she heard the door at the far end of the hall wheeze open and slam shut. Then she stacked the cash on the counter, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.