Never Let You Go(5)

“Mrs. Carlson, I’m so sorry, but Atticus…” I pause. How do I put this? “Atticus has passed away. I’m so sorry,” I repeat.

“Oh, no!” she says, her voice quavering. “Whatever happened?”

“I think he might have gotten too cold.”

“The window! I was sure I closed it—I always let him have some fresh air in the mornings so he can sing to the birds outside.” I don’t know why she had the window pushed all the way up at this time of year, but I’m not going to make her feel worse by asking questions.

“Poor Atticus,” she says. “I’ll have to take care of him when I get home.” Her voice is starting to break and I can tell she’s near tears. “Perhaps I should bury him outside under the lilac bushes. They’re so pretty in the summer. Do you think that’s a nice place?”

“It’s a perfect place.” I can’t just leave her to take care of it on her own. “Would you like me to do it?”

She pauses, and I hear her blowing her nose. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh. That’s very kind. I’d like that.” She catches her breath, a hiccup of sound. “I’m going to miss him terribly. The house will be so quiet without his beautiful singing.”

“He was a lovely bird.” She sounds so shaken. I’m glad she’s with her sister. I’ll bring her flowers this week, stop by and have tea with her.

“Thank you, dear.” She blows her nose again. “Can you say a prayer for him?”

“Of course.”

I grab a small box and newspaper from the recycling and create a makeshift coffin for Atticus’s body, which I place in the garage. I finish the rest of the cleaning, vacuuming Atticus’s cage and pulling a sheet over it. Then I get Atticus’s body from the garage. When I crouch down to pick up the box, I catch the scent of something masculine in the air, something woodsy. I stand quickly and look around. The garage is neat and tidy, only her dead husband’s old Buick filling the space. She must have an air freshener.

I’m still thinking about Mrs. Carlson as I walk into the kitchen. Her animals have meant the world to her since she lost her husband three years ago. I set the shoe box down, look for my keys on the counter, then pause. They’re gone. My purse is upright. I’d knocked it over earlier, and my keys and lip gloss had tumbled out. I left them lying there. I stare at the beige fake leather bag I’d found on sale at Walmart that looks like a Chanel, according to my daughter anyway. I peek inside. My keys and gloss have been carefully placed on top of my wallet.

I stumble back. I don’t stop for my boots or my coat. I just run out of the house, noticing in a quick flash that the door is unlocked. He went out that way. He could be waiting.

I sprint for my car, lock the doors, and press the numbers on my cell. I rummage through my glove box for my pepper spray, remove the safety, and hook my thumb on the trigger. While I’m waiting for the police, I stare at the house and the path, watch for any movement.

It’s been three months since my brother called to tell me Andrew has been released from prison and that someone saw him on Vancouver Island. I can still remember the sound of Chris’s voice when he phoned, the hesitation and tightness. I knew before he even said anything. This was the call I’d been waiting for. Andrew was a free man and he was going to find me.

But days passed. Then weeks, months. Nothing happened, and I thought we were safe.

My gaze travels from the door to each window, up to the second floor, then down again. The whole time I was inside, cleaning, singing, and vacuuming, he was in there too. He might have been standing so close he could have touched me. Why didn’t he make his move? Then I realize why he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been enough for him. He needs me to suffer.

He’s going to make me pay for every year he spent behind bars.





CHAPTER THREE


DECEMBER 1997



“Watch out!” Andrew shouted, and I ducked as a snowball hit my boots. “That’s it!” He tackled my brother to the ground. I laughed as they wrestled in the snow, trying to shove handfuls down each other’s necks. My dad jumped out of the back of the moving truck and started lobbing snowballs at them. It was good to see him with a smile on his face.

I wished my mom could have been there. Maybe we could bring her over later. I worked my way through the snow, carrying the heavy box, and walked carefully up the icy steps. The hallway still smelled of fresh paint, a welcoming sage-green. Andrew had the painters come back twice because of drip marks, but now it was perfect. We’d stacked boxes everywhere. Most of them came from Andrew’s house, others were wedding gifts.

I slid the box onto the counter. I should have gone outside for the next one, but I couldn’t help wandering into the dining room to stroke my fingers across the silky surface of the pine table we’d picked out last week. I imagined my family over for dinner Sunday nights, plates heaped full, everyone talking and laughing. Mom could rest on the couch while I cleaned up. She seemed so tired lately and I was sure her MS was getting worse, but she wouldn’t talk about it. I’d send them home with leftovers so she wouldn’t have to cook for days. Andrew and my father would talk about houses they were building, rolling plans out on the table. Chris would hang on to their every word, counting the days until he graduated so he could work for Andrew too.