“I can’t come to the phone at the moment, but if you’ll leave your name and number, and a short message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“I don’t think so.” Lily hung up the phone. Well, of course he’s out. Why wouldn’t he be? You didn’t really expect him to be sitting home, waiting for you to call, did you? “Would have been nice.” She stood for a few minutes in the middle of the kitchen, then marched from the room.
A minute later, she was perched on the end of her bed, flipping through the channels of her small TV. “Surely I can find
something.”
Except after zapping twice through all the channels, she was dismayed to discover there wasn’t a single program on television she was interested in watching. What was the matter with her? Why was she so restless? She’d had a nice day—the art gallery had been as wonderful as Jeff had intimated, and the movie, an animated film about fast-talking sharks and other assorted,
deep-sea wheeler-dealers, had been a pleasant diversion. She’d feasted on McDonald’s fries and movie popcorn, and Michael had given her no trouble at bedtime, so why was she feeling so out of sorts?
Was Emma’s mood contagious? Was she upset because Jeff hadn’t called? Or was she just horny? Lily shrugged, unable to shake the unwelcome feeling that something was about to happen. Something unpleasant.
She laughed. How many times had she had that feeling over the last year? And had anything ever happened? No. In fact, the only time things seemed to happen was when she least expected them, when she was least prepared to deal with them. Had she had any inkling of her husband’s terrible secret? Had she had even a flicker of precognition that Kenny was about to crash his motorcycle into a tree?
Lily stared at the television set, her thumb releasing its pressure on the remote control as a lovely old house at the end of a tree-lined lane came into sharp focus.
“Does Atlanta have another serial killer on its hands?” a sonorous, male voice asked as a photograph of an attractive, older woman replaced the view of the quiet street. “No further developments in the brutal slaying of a wealthy Atlanta widow in the early hours of the morning,” the announcer from CNN continued solemnly as a scroll of the day’s headlines raced across the bottom of the screen. “Laura Dennison, age fifty-seven, was found by her son, Mark Dennison, at approximately eight o’clock this morning. The Georgia woman had been struck repeatedly in the head by a blunt instrument. At this time, police are refusing to speculate whether this latest killing is related to two other killings of elderly women in the Atlanta area in the last eight months.”
“At this time, we have no reason to suspect these cases are in any way related,” a police officer insisted with obvious impatience, trying to escape the microphone bobbing frantically up and down in front of his face.
“But residents of this upscale suburb of Atlanta are far from convinced,” the announcer continued, the camera zeroing in on a number of concerned Atlanta residents.
“Of course I’m scared,” one senior citizen railed at the camera. “What are the police doing to protect us?”
“Three women have been murdered in the last eight months,” another said angrily. “Of course it’s the work of a serial killer. How long can the police keep denying the obvious?”
“One doesn’t expect this sort of thing to happen in a place like Buckhead.”
Lily turned off the TV. She didn’t want to hear about serial killers prowling the streets, especially when the police seemed as powerless as everyone else.
Might as well start the Steinbeck, she decided, pushing herself off her bed and heading back down the stairs, wondering how many of her fellow book club members would actually read the book this time. At least I’m getting some exercise, she thought, jumping off the bottom step and turning into the living room, spotting a man’s shadow through the sheer curtains.
She gasped, and the figure froze, tilting his head toward her. “Oh, God,” she whispered as the figure dashed out of sight. Almost immediately, there was a knock on her front door, tentative at first, and then stronger, more insistent.
Lily moved warily into the hall.
“Lily?” a man’s voice asked through the double set of doors. “Lily? It’s Jeff Dawson. Are you there?”
Lily pulled open the front door, stared through the screen at the detective.
“I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”
Lily laughed, feeling simultaneously foolish and relieved. “I was watching this story on TV about a serial killer in Atlanta.…”
“And you thought he’d taken a detour onto Mad River Road?”
“I guess it spooked me. Come on in.”
“I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he began, then stopped. “Actually, I was on the other side of town.” He stepped inside, and Lily closed the door after him. “How’s that for playing hard to get?”
Lily smiled. “I was never very big on games.”
“Good. I was never very good at them.”
“Actually I called
you
a few minutes ago,” she admitted.
“You did? Why?”
“I was hoping you might like to come over for a cup of coffee.”
“I’d love a cup of coffee.”
“Well, good thing I called then.” They laughed as Lily led the way to the kitchen, feeling giddy and light-headed.
“My God, what happened in here?”
Lily’s eyes took in the overturned chair and discarded clumps of paper scattered across the floor. Quickly, she righted the chair and tossed the paper balls into the garbage pail underneath the sink. “I got a little frustrated with a story I was working on.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
You can take your clothes off and make mad, passionate
love to me right here on the kitchen table, Lily thought, measuring out enough coffee for six cups and pouring cold water into the coffeemaker, concentrating on keeping her hands steady. Not playing hard to get was one thing; making a fool of herself was quite another. “Is decaf all right?” she asked, turning around as he stepped toward her.
The kiss that followed was both soft and urgent, everything she’d been fantasizing about all day. She fought to keep her hands at her sides, afraid if she touched him, she wouldn’t be able to stop until she’d succeeded in ripping off all his clothes. Maybe they could do it standing up, she found herself thinking. Then, what was the matter with her? What if her son were to wake up and come downstairs, find them passionately going at it against the kitchen cupboards? “So, I took the boys to the art gallery today, like you suggested, and it was great, they loved it,” she whispered in a conscious effort to slow things down.
“Boys?” he asked, finding her lips, kissing her again.
“Michael and Dylan. Emma’s son.” She suddenly felt Jeff stiffen, his lips retreat. “Jeff? What’s wrong?” Had talk of her son succeeded in not only slowing things down but in killing them altogether?
Jeff took a step back, leaned against the kitchen table, staring at her through a policeman’s eyes. “How well do you know this Emma Frost?”
What was happening? “I don’t understand.”
“Your friend, Emma. How long have you known her?”
Why was he asking that? “Well, we’ve been neighbors for a while, but it’s only in the last few days that we’ve become friendly. Why? What’s going on?”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Why should I tell you anything?” Lily heard the
defensiveness in her voice and wondered what exactly she was defending.
“I saw her earlier today.”
“Oh?” Was he the old friend Emma had spoken of having coffee with, the one who supposedly “smoked like a chimney”? “You had coffee with her?”
“Yes, but only after.…”
“After?” Dear God, Lily thought. After what?
“After I caught her shoplifting.”
“What!”
“In Marshalls. I almost arrested her.”
“What!” Lily said again, the only word her tongue seemed capable of formulating.
“The only reason I didn’t was because she’s your friend.”
“This is ridiculous. I can’t imagine Emma ever stealing anything.”
“She stole a blouse and a scarf, and a pair of earrings, and God only knows what else she had on underneath her clothing,” Jeff enumerated.
Lily suddenly pictured Emma in her pretty, peach-colored sweater. Was that why Emma had refused to look her in the eye when she’d brought Dylan home?
“Tell me what you know about her.”
“I don’t know much,” Lily conceded. “Just that she used to be a model.”
“What else?”
“That she sold a story to
Cosmopolitan
magazine.”
“You saw it?”
“Well, no. She left it behind when she left her marriage.”
“And she left her marriage because …?”
“Because her ex was some kind of pervert. He was into child pornography. That kind of stuff.”
“She ever say where he lives?”
Lily shook her head. He was starting to scare her. “You think she’s lying?”
“She told me her family moved around a lot because her father was in the army.”
“Well, that’s not unusual, from what I understand about army brats.”
“Except there are no army bases in Miami and Detroit, two of the places she says they lived, and when I called her on it, she made up some crazy story about her mother being transferred between school boards.”
“Her mother was a school principal,” Lily confirmed. “Maybe she just went wherever opportunity took her.”
“Emma said her father was killed in Vietnam when she was a child,” Jeff countered.
“So?”
“Kind of difficult, since the war ended before she was born.”
“Oh, God.” She’d left her son with this woman, Lily was thinking. “Her son said something kind of peculiar this afternoon,” she said, remembering. “I thought it was just his imagination.…”
“What did he say?”
“That his real name wasn’t Dylan, that his mother’s name wasn’t really Emma, but that he wasn’t supposed to tell anybody. Do you think that could be true?”
“I think I trust Dylan more than I trust his mother,” Jeff said.
“But if she isn’t Emma Frost,” Lily began, “then who is she?”
Jeff said nothing. It was his silence that did the talking. I don’t know, his silence told her. But I’m going to do my damndest to find out.
J
amie sat huddled against the ugly, dark wood headboard of the lumpy double bed, trying not to cry. Brad had told her to stop crying, and it was important that she do as she was told because she didn’t want to make him angry. If she made him angry—and she had made him angry many times over the course of the long afternoon—then he might hit her again. And she couldn’t risk that. Especially now. Now when he was finally relaxed and happy, his fists resting comfortably at his sides as he lay stretched out along the foot of the bed, his feet dangling over one end of the hideous, mustard-and-green quilted bedspread, his eye glued to the TV screen.
He let out a sudden whoop of laughter and turned his head toward Jamie. “Hah!” he shouted. “Did you hear that, Jamie-girl?”
Hear what? she wondered, her spine stiffening against the hard wood of the headboard. Was it real wood or imitation? she wondered absently, afraid to allow her mind to consider other, more urgent, matters. Like how to get out of this terrible little room in this horrible, cheap motel. Like how to get away from this awful man who continued
to profess his love while slapping her so hard across the face, she’d heard her teeth rattle against her ears. To think she’d ever found him handsome, she marveled now, seeing his poisonous smile slither into the blue of his eyes, then quickly banishing such unwanted thoughts from her mind. He’d see them there, she was thinking. He’d see them there and hit her again.
“You didn’t hear that?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Jamie said quickly. She should have heard. She should have been paying attention.
“What are you sorry about?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry,” Jamie apologized again.
Brad propped himself up on his elbows and laughed. “It’s good news, Jamie-girl,” he said. “You’re home free. The Atlanta police think they got a serial killer on their hands. Can you beat that?”
“What?” What was he saying?
“They think your mother-in-law was murdered by some dumb-ass serial killer.”
Why would they think that? Jamie wondered.
“Apparently two other old ladies got their heads beat in this past year,” Brad answered, as if she’d asked the question out loud.
He sees inside my brain, Jamie understood. He knows my every thought. That’s why it was so important to keep her mind blank, her head clear.
“Dumb cops.” He laughed again. “Hey,” he said, glancing at the round, wooden table that stood between the bed and the window. “You still haven’t eaten your dinner.”
“I couldn’t.” The thought of food made her sick.
Brad swung his feet off the bed and walked to the table, picking up the paper bag containing a by-now cold
cheeseburger and fries, and tossing it toward the bed. It landed in Jamie’s lap, the unmistakable odor of McDonald’s bouncing nauseatingly toward her nose. “You gotta keep up your strength, Jamie,” he said, as if her welfare was his chief concern. “Come on. Eat up.”
Jamie dragged the bag up her chest, unfolding the cellophane wrapping and fighting back the almost overpowering urge to gag as she nibbled tentatively at the bun.
“That’s my girl,” Brad said, and Jamie remembered how thrilled she’d been the first time he’d called her his girl. “Come on. Have some fries.” He walked to her side, stood over her, waiting.
“I don’t think I can,” Jamie ventured.
“You didn’t eat any lunch, Jamie,” Brad scolded. “Now, come on. Don’t give me a hard time.”
Immediately Jamie scooped a bunch of fries into her hand and forced them between her lips. Whatever you do, don’t be sick, she told herself. He’ll get mad if you get sick, say you’re doing it on purpose, that enough is enough, and if you’re going to keep acting like a child, he’s going to have to treat you like a child. Words to that effect. The same words he’d used when they checked into this miserable place. The same words he’d used just before he hit her again. She stuffed another handful of fries into her mouth, took a bigger bite of her burger.