Tonya had gotten into most of her clothes, stuffed her underwear in her purse, grabbed the bedding, and run from the room, not looking back as Dillon held down the groaning Blume. She’d slipped out the back door and tried to keep away from the streets except to find a storm drain. The bedding and her little bit of clothes had gone in easily. She’d started walking fast, although her lungs felt empty. She was only two blocks away from Blume’s and veering away from the road when headlights caught her, a car slowed down, and Marissa Gray had yelled, “Tonya? Is that you?”
Tonya had felt as if she might pass out and stood absolutely still for a moment. Marissa didn’t have a driver’s license yet. She was with someone else. Tonya had stiffened her spine and walked to the car to find that Annemarie was the driver. Thank God, she’d thought. Annemarie liked her.
Tonya had told Annemarie and Marissa that her mother was in a bad mood, which the Grays knew was code for drunk, and Tonya had gone for a long walk just to get away from her. She knew she was breathlessly chattering, her hair was a mess, and she didn’t even want to think about how her facial skin must look, especially her lips. She’d hoped Annemarie and Marissa would chalk it all up to Tonya’s distress over her mother’s anger.
Annemarie had offered to take her home, and when they’d arrived Tonya’s mother had been gone. “Well, thank God I don’t have to listen to
her
anymore tonight,” Tonya remembered saying, although the woman had been gone all evening. Tonya had given the Grays a terse “good night,” run to her front door, slammed it behind her, and waited until she saw Annemarie drive away before she’d buried her head in a couch pillow and screamed until she had no voice left.
The next day brought no news, but the day after the principal announced Edgar Blume had died of a heart attack. The shock over Blume’s death had quickly been overcome by the rumors that Blume’s wife had been out of town and Blume was found naked in bed along with a pair of a woman’s black lace panties—rumors that Tonya knew were Dillon’s touch. Worst of all, she’d seen Marissa looking at her guardedly. Of course she would remember how close Tonya had been to Blume’s house when she and her mother had picked up Tonya.
Within four days the news that Blume had been doing cocaine and taking Viagra crept through the city. Tonya had known police hadn’t released all of this information—Dillon had been spreading the word. It had worked. Blume’s reputation as a strict but scrupulous teacher lay in ruins. His reputation as a loving and faithful husband had shattered. A month after his death, when the mention of his name resulted in snickers, Mrs. Blume had left the city with her young son, although their house wouldn’t sell for two years.
What if that happened to me? Tonya now wondered. What if someone ruined my life, the baby’s life,
took
Andrew’s life? Tonya felt drenched in guilt and shame. In spite of the cold, she suddenly began to perspire. She wondered if she should pull to the side of the road—if she wasn’t safe to drive—but she was too close to home. Someone might stop to ask if they could help her—she, who didn’t deserve anyone’s help—and delay her arrival at the sanctuary of her and Andrew’s small, cozy house. Andrew. Concentrating on the kind of man she’d married would banish this nauseating shame. She must keep in mind that as embarrassed as Mrs. Blume must have been, her husband had been responsible for everything that had happened. He’d brought humiliation down on the family. He’d driven Tonya to do what she had done to him. Andrew was incapable of such ruthlessness. Andrew would always keep her and the baby safe.
Ever since she married Andrew, she believed she, too, had helped preserve a future with Andrew and their child, although she hadn’t known it at the time. She’d kept her promise to Dillon to return his “favor” to her. It had happened when she’d least expected it, years after Dillon had saved her from Edgar Blume.
The group she’d called friends had all been in their twenties. Gretchen had been acting strange, but then Gretchen was a genius and Tonya had heard geniuses were all weird. She hadn’t known what Will Addison had seen in her or why he’d dated her for four months. Gretchen’s sudden relationship with Dillon puzzled Tonya even more. At twenty-one Gretchen still seemed nothing but a thin, mildly pretty, strange little girl who was a complete cipher to Tonya. But Tonya hadn’t cared about Dillon’s current sexual interest. She’d only been relieved and lighthearted that Will Addison was on the market again.
Then, finally, had come that beautiful night when they’d gone to Gray’s Island on the
Annemarie.
Tonya had been walking toward the church when Dillon had lightly caught her arm and pulled her close to him. “Remember the night when I told you friends always pay each other back for favors?” he’d asked softly.
A bud of fear had begun to bloom in her stomach, sending quivering vines throughout her body. The warm night had turned cold and dark, and the moon and stars had slowly dimmed until they’d almost reached oblivion.
“Well, tonight is the night for you to return the favor I did for you.” Dillon had unobtrusively stroked her arm. “You’ll know the time. And you’ll do what’s right—for me.”
She’d looked up at him—at those mesmerizing blue eyes and the confidently sensuous face—and she’d known she would do what he wanted. Tonya had seen Dillon at his worst—or had the night at Blume’s actually been his best?—and she’d known she would obey. She had too much to lose otherwise, and Dillon would make certain she’d pay for disobedience. She believed he’d make her pay more than she believed anything else in the world.
Tonya had felt a moment of panic when Marissa and Eric had deserted the rest of the group. She had no sexual feelings about Eric and everyone knew he’d been in love with Marissa for years, but he had a way of making people feel secure. Tonya had trusted Eric Montgomery and wanted desperately for him to stay with the group.
But he hadn’t.
Parker Street at last, Tonya now thought with the nearest feeling to joy she could muster. She turned onto the relatively new street where development had just begun. Only five houses so far, and she thought she would start crying again when she saw the small one-story rectangular home that was her haven. She’d insisted it be repainted yellow from its original dusky blue-gray. Tonya had wanted something bright and warm that would remind her of happy summer days, and Andrew had thought her yearning for a house the color of sunlight cute and endearing.
Tonya had forgotten to leave on the porch light and the house sat in shadows she probably wouldn’t have noticed if she weren’t so anxious tonight. She pulled onto the driveway, pushed a button on the automatic garage door opener, then drove too fast into the garage and almost hit the back wall. Her hands shook as she closed the garage door and opened the door leading into the kitchen. The cheerful little room seemed unusually dark and cold. Imagination, Tonya thought. She needed lights and something to drink. Her throat had grown tight and raw. She felt as if she could barely swallow, but the desire for cold water, juice—
anything
—overwhelmed her.
She knew exactly where the light switch was without looking. She flipped it. Nothing. The room remained coolly dark. Tonya almost ran back outside to her car, and then told herself she was being silly. The damned lightbulb had burned out. Of all times!
She dropped her keys in her purse, walked farther into the kitchen, and set her purse on the counter. Tonya started to take off her coat and then stopped. The house felt so cold that she wondered if something had gone wrong with the furnace. Oh, that would be great, she thought, getting angry. They couldn’t get it fixed until tomorrow, meaning they’d have to spend the night at her mother’s house. She had taken off for Las Vegas with a man she barely knew and Tonya wasn’t certain she had the key. Hell, she and Andrew might end up at a little motel. The Larke Inn was too expensive.
She stalked to the kitchen, furious with Marissa for upsetting her earlier, furious that she’d taken a wrong turn and driven by Edgar Blume’s house, furious with the furnace that might be broken. She knew she shouldn’t take a tranquilizer, but just one couldn’t hurt, she reasoned. Something mild, she told herself, although she knew one mild tranquilizer wouldn’t help. Maybe two, even three—
As she stood motionless in the kitchen, trying to decide what to do, she had the uncanny feeling that the house had begun to breathe, to become conscious, to
live.
Tonya closed her eyes and drew air into her lungs. She was being ridiculous. She could always call Andrew and tell him to come home immediately, but she didn’t want to be a clinging wife. She didn’t want him to think she was weak, paranoid, suffocating—
A whisper of movement came from the living room. Tonya stiffened and then forced herself to walk slowly to the doorway and ask, “Who’s there?” Only cold quiet answered. A dim bluish glow from a streetlight revealed most of the room and furniture that looked strange in the cool, distant lighting. She didn’t hear a thing.
“Tonya, you’re not supposed to take tranquilizers, but if you don’t take one—just one now—you’re going to pass out from nerves,” she said aloud for company. She turned and headed back into the kitchen. “This has been the worst night I’ve had for a long time. If I hadn’t let Buddy Pruitt’s death spook me, I could have stayed calm and done a much better job of befriending Marissa again, of making her forget when Blume died, when Gretchen died….”
She grabbed a flashlight she kept in a drawer beside the kitchen sink. She turned it on and it bloomed with brightness. Tonya scanned the kitchen and then screamed when she saw a bottle of ruby port wine sitting on the counter. She could see Edgar Blume, his face contorted in agony, clutching his chest, as he’d lain on the bed, held down by a smiling Dillon. She reached out to touch the bottle and then quickly drew back her hand. Andrew wouldn’t have bought this, she thought.
Someone had brought it in during the last two hours, wanting her to see it. Or
waiting
for her to see it.
Tonya started to turn in order to pick up her purse with her car keys inside, but an arm closed around her left side and something slid smoothly into her throat at the base of the Adam’s apple. Blood spurted all over the yellow cabinet tops and splattered on the refrigerator. Tonya reached for her neck, trying to cover it with her hand, but something like a spike stabbed between her fingers and tore into her neck again.
By now, Tonya tried to scream, but only a gurgle emerged. Then, abruptly, someone let go of her body. She staggered, choking, and then folded to her knees, still trying to wrap both hands around her neck to stanch the pool of blood forming around her on the vinyl floor.
She couldn’t breathe around the blood bubbling in her throat. She grew dizzy. The kitchen and her attacker began to whirl around her, faster and faster. Weakness and languor crept through her body, but she could still think—think that even if her attacker left her right now, she didn’t think she could make it to the cell phone in her purse, and certainly not the phone in the living room.
This is it, she thought numbly. I’ve spent twenty-seven years trying to find happiness and finally I have it with Andrew Archer and a baby, and it’s all going…going…
Tonya fell sideways, drenching her right side in blood, still holding desperately to her neck. If only Andrew would walk in right now and call an ambulance. But Andrew wasn’t going to arrive and save the day, she thought with what she had left of bitter mental laughter. She’d had her brief window of happiness and now it was closing, just like her eyes. She’d lie here on the kitchen floor, drifting into death. She’d picture her baby in Andrew’s arms. That’s what she’d picture, she thought with growing cloudiness, trying with all the will she had left. The baby…the sweet baby…Andrew and the baby…
Instead, all she could see was Gretchen Montgomery, drunk on the beer and other alcohol Dillon had kept pushing on her. Gretchen drunk and standing barefoot on a high, high rail in a church. Dillon Archer inching closer and closer to her until he reached out with both arms, placed a hand on her thigh, and
pushed,
just like Marissa had said. But Tonya couldn’t tell the police the truth because she owed Dillon a debt and if she hadn’t paid her debt, she probably would have ended up like Gretchen—broken, dead, and looking at the world with unseeing eyes.
But she’d kept her promise and she was dying just like Gretchen anyway. Why? she wondered with her last bit of consciousness. Why?
Chapter 11
1
The alarm sounded like an air-raid siren to Marissa the next morning. She jerked up in bed, grabbed the clock, and searched frantically for the “off” button. She’d tried the more mellow radio alarm clocks, but the sound of music—even if it was fairly loud—never woke her, so she stayed true to the twin bell clocks she’d used since childhood. Although she and her sister both slept with their doors closed so the alarm wouldn’t awaken Catherine, the method was not always effective, and Marissa didn’t want to wake Catherine this morning. Marissa had gone to bed before her sister returned home with James last night and she wanted to leave for work before Catherine awakened this morning and avoid telling her about the rosebushes, the “Tyger” note, and Tonya’s bizarre visit.
In forty-five minutes, Marissa drank the coffee left in her mug and popped the last piece of toast in her mouth. The crisply blue day sent bright light through the kitchen windows, although she’d kept the blinds lowered so she wouldn’t have to look at the ruin of her mother’s rose garden; it made Marissa feel as if someone had bludgeoned Annemarie. And herself. After all, she knew the blue-eyed doll represented her. She was glad Eric had taken it, the note, and the postcard away as evidence.
She had to stop thinking about the fire, she told herself.
Anything
else would be better. Marissa glanced down at her navy blue wool skirt, cornflower blue turtleneck sweater, two long strands of faux pearls, and two equally long gold-tone chains. Her engraved bangle bracelet sparkled in the sun, and she checked to make sure her big hoop earrings hadn’t tangled in her hair and then looked at Lindsay, whose expression said she hoped ardently for one last dog biscuit. The expression never failed. The dog was beginning to crunch with gusto when Marissa’s cell phone rang.