Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(73)

She rolls her eyes and then tosses my pills—all of them—into her mouth and takes a long drink of water. Ten of those pills probably won’t kill her, but if I can keep things calm for twenty minutes, they might knock her out. After she swallows the pills, she stands up and starts walking toward me.

“And we would show him our devoutness by shaving our heads. We practiced putting on my mother’s snood, and her wigs. Rivka’s mother did not wear a wig and Rivka wanted to wear one, like my mother.” She is standing behind me now, her hand stroking my hair.

“But Rivka was a liar. She was not devout at all. She was too vain to shave after her wedding.”

Miriam gathers my hair into her hand and pulls my head back. Her face is inches from mine. I can communicate only with my eyes and I know that all they show is fear.

“Rivka was afraid, too,” she says, looking down at me. She pulls tight and then she starts to cut. I can hear my hair rip, and I can feel the way the blade tears through it, nicking the base of my scalp. Rivka Mendelssohn was bald when she died. Freshly shorn. Getting all that hair off with scissors would have taken a long time. I wonder if she died in this garage. I wonder if, someday, Miriam will look back and it will seem like one time in her mind.

“After Shoshanna died, Rivka became like everyone else. They think I don’t notice. They think that they can send me away and that I will return and I will forget. They think I can’t see what they think of me. But I can always see. I can see inside them all. Rivka said that she forgave me. She said that she knew it must have been an accident. That she shouldn’t have burdened me with her child’s care. She said she should have been more sensitive about how I might feel about all her children. Because she was blessed with so many, and poor Miriam couldn’t even get Hashem to give her one. But she did not understand. She did not deserve her children. When I saw what she was doing—the shame she was bringing to my family, to my brother—I could not bear the whispers anymore. Everywhere I went, they were looking at me. Talking about the zona in the Mendelssohn home. As if it was my fault. I must have infected her. But I was never unfaithful. I am not as pretty as Rivka but I had my chances. And then I saw that Heshy had fallen under her spell. How could I be expected to bear that? In the same house?”

My phone rings, and Miriam stops talking. It rings again.

“Who is that?” she demands. She runs to where she’s dumped my purse out and picks up my phone. She does not answer, just stares at it as it rings. “Who is this? It is a blocked number.” It is also, I decide, my chance. I tighten my stomach muscles and throw my weight backward. My head hits the floor and I twist sideways. I’m still tied to the chair but I try to whip around. If I’m a moving target, it’s harder for Miriam to just pull her arm back and stab the shit out of me. I am not going to die in this f*cking garage. Miriam hurls my phone at my head, but misses. I tense my stomach again and swing my hips forward. My thighs collide with her calves, knocking her off her feet. We’re both on the ground now. I turn my head and she’s right there, her pale, ugly face, her yellow fingernails. I’ve startled her. She looks down at her hand, and then presses it to a spot on her lip that’s broken and bleeding. The scissors are on the floor just above both of our heads.

I toss my weight counterclockwise, knocking my knees into her head. She grunts and curls forward into a ball while I push backward, scooting toward the scissors to try to kick them away and put the chairback between myself and Miriam. Did I tell anyone I was coming here? I forgot to call photo. Larry knows. But he’s not going to worry soon enough. I focus my mind on my right foot. If I point my toes inside my boot and pull up with my ankle, I can wiggle some room in the loop holding my foot to the chair leg. I point and point and it feels like the muscle holding my foot onto my leg might snap. I point and push, hearing Miriam next to me crawling toward the scissors. And then finally I feel a give. I kick at what I now see is a simple double knot around my left ankle. Four, five, six kicks and then there’s enough space to push the loop to the end of the chair and off. Miriam stands up. She holds the scissors in front of her, pointing at me.

My legs are free, but I’m still tethered to the chair so I can’t actually stand. I scoot backward along the floor. Miriam is gripping the scissors with both hands, pointing them at me like she’s protecting herself.

My phone rings again; again, Miriam is startled.

“Who is that!” she screams, and begins backing into the opposite corner, toward the sink.

“Don’t come any closer,” she says.

And then I hear it: footsteps. Boots.

“Miriam!” calls a male voice.

“Get away!” screams Miriam.

“We’re coming in!” shouts the man. A kick, and the door swings open.

It’s Aron Mendelssohn. Behind him is Detective Darin Spinelli, holding a gun.

“Drop the weapon!” Darin shouts at Miriam.

But if Miriam hears him, she doesn’t act like it. She wipes her eyes with her bloody hand and charges forward with the scissors in front of her. She takes less than three steps before Darin blasts her. One, two shots to the chest and she falls like a bag of bricks.

Aron Mendelssohn runs to me and kneels down, frantically untying my hands. “Are you all right?” he asks, grabbing my arms, turning me, examining me, and then suddenly, pulling me to him. Holding me, and murmuring, “Baruch Hashem. Baruch Hashem.”