Little Girls(46)

“Tell me about what happened the night he died.”

Teresa shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her eyes darted across the room, as if drawn to the large chalkboard scrawled with the day’s specials at the opposite end of the coffee shop. When she spoke again, she sounded as if something were caught in her throat.

“It was sometime after midnight. I was asleep in the guestroom upstairs, at the opposite end of the hall from where your father slept. He had gone to bed around nine and hadn’t gotten up at all, so I was thinking—well, hoping—that it might be an easy night.

“I was lying in bed reading a book. I had one earbud in so I could listen to my iPod, but I always kept one out so I could hear if he made any noises in the night. Just before midnight, I went down the hall and checked in on your father. I could hear him snoring, so I knew he was okay. So I went back to my room and went to sleep.

“Sometime later I woke up. Or maybe I thought I did. I don’t remember. I heard low voices talking in whispers, or maybe that part was in my dream.”

“Voices? More than one, you mean?”

Teresa appeared to consider this for a while before answering. “I think maybe it was one voice, though it sounded like one end of a conversation.”

“Meaning my father had been talking to himself.”

“I guess. I mean, something like that. I can’t really be sure. I never heard the door open—that door that goes to the room upstairs.” Again, she paused to consider this. “I think I dreamt I heard the door open, but maybe I never did. All I know is I didn’t get out of bed until I heard him shouting. I got up, went into the hall, and saw the door standing open. I was shocked at this, you know, because it was always locked.”

“But was it that night?”

“It was always locked,” Teresa repeated. “We checked it every night.”

“And I assume my father didn’t have access to the key?”

“Of course not. I kept it on my keychain with my car keys, and those were in my purse.”

“Okay. So the door is open . . . ?”

“By the time I reached the door and looked up the stairs, your father had stopped shouting. The whole house went eerily quiet. Then I heard the window smash. I ran up the stairs to the room and saw the window broken. When I looked out, I saw him on the pavement below. He was cut up from jumping out the window—he hadn’t opened it first, just jumped through the glass—and I could tell by the way he was lying down there that he was dead.”

“Did you see anyone else out there in the yard when you looked down?”

“No. Who would I see? It was after midnight.”

Laurie picked up the silver key. “Why was the lock put back on the door after my father’s death? There would have been no reason to prevent him from going up there anymore.”

Again, Teresa Larosche glanced down at her hands. Her unpainted fingernails had been gnawed down to nubs, the cuticles stained to the color of mercurochrome from nicotine. There was a small tattoo of a butterfly in the fleshy webbing between the thumb and index finger of her left hand.

“Teresa?” Laurie prompted when it didn’t appear that the girl would respond.

“It’s silly,” Teresa said. Laurie couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or cry. “Mr. Claiborne insisted we clean the house up, get it ready for your arrival. I guess your father just got to me. Scared me, you know? Like that movie about the crazy guy who turns the psychiatrist crazy, too. I just felt . . . safer . . . being back in that house with the door locked.” When she finally looked up, Laurie saw that her eyes were moist. “Stupid, right?”

Laurie reached out and touched one of the young woman’s hands. “Not at all,” she told her.

“I quit the next day. I just couldn’t be in that house. I was hearing things by then, too . . . or at least convincing myself that I was. I kept thinking that Mr. Brashear was dead but his phobias were not. Toby said it could be ghosts. He believes in life after death and all that weird stuff. Even if I don’t—and I don’t, I don’t believe in that stuff—Toby might still have a point.” She laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I guess I sound like an idiot.” Almost apologetically, she added, “Toby’s my boyfriend.”

Laurie’s smile felt like a grimace on her face. “You were there that night, so I want to ask you a question, and I want you to be perfectly honest with me in your answer. I don’t want you to be embarrassed or think I’m judging you or anything. Okay?”

Teresa’s silver rings made knocking sounds against the tabletop as her hands started to vibrate again. She smiled painstakingly at Laurie. There was sadness in her smile, a tired resignation. “Yeah, okay.”

“Do you believe there was someone else in the house with you the night my father died?”

“Now you’re just freaking me out,” Teresa said.

“That’s not my intention. I just want to know what you think.”

Teresa Larosche stared at her for an indeterminate amount of time, not blinking. “Listen,” she said after a time, “do you mind if I grab a smoke real quick?” She stood and slung her purse over one shoulder.

“Be my guest.”

Already shaking a cigarette from the pack, Teresa crossed the coffee shop and stepped outside. Through the narrow window beside the door, Laurie watched her lean against the building and light the cigarette.