All the Dangerous Things(20)

“It’s fine,” she says, her eyes weary but kind. She must see the panicked confusion in my face—the way I’m glancing around, looking for any indication of how much time has passed—because she places her hand on my arm now, squeezing gently. “There’s a group that meets on Monday nights, if you’re interested.”

“A group?”

“Grief counseling,” she says. “Around back. You’ll see a sign outside the service door.”

“Oh, no—” I start, reaching for my purse. But suddenly, I remember Kasey’s eyes finding mine in the dark. Her voice, gentle and low.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. It’s okay to ask for help.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” the woman says, winking, sensing my hesitation. “You can just sit.”

I collect my things and step back into the brisk night air, walking around the side of the building. The square is eerily empty now, still except for the faint flicker of the remaining candles not yet blown out by the wind, and once I reach the back of the church, I find an open service door, cheap fluorescent light leaking out onto the sidewalk.

I poke my head inside, the smell of bitter coffee pricking at my senses.

“Welcome.”

I turn to the side, taking in the woman before me. She looks young, in her late twenties, with olive skin and glossy brown hair pinned back at the sides. Her eyes are large—domineering, almost—and when she smiles, two dimples emerge on her cheeks, slits like gashes deep enough to scar.

“I’m Valerie,” she says, extending her hand. It takes a second, but slowly, her expression shifts, the dimples disappearing as her smile fades.

She recognizes me. Of course she does.

“Isabelle,” I say, even though I need no introduction.

I peek farther into the room, noticing the metal chairs arranged in a circle and the folding table set up in the back. There are carafes of coffee, rows of pastries, all of the stereotypically sad things you’d expect to find at a place like this.

“I saw the candles,” the woman says, gesturing to the open door. “It looked very nice out there.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you joining us tonight?”

I hesitate, glancing back at the chairs, but all I can see are the chairs in that auditorium. All of those glowing eyes, staring. Judging.

“No,” I say at last, shaking my head. “I was just curious, I guess.”

The woman smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. She opens her mouth, ready to speak again, when we’re interrupted by a noise behind me. I swing around, my eyes landing on an older gentleman who’s just shuffled through the open door. He looks apologetic for interrupting us, gesturing meekly to the circle of chairs before walking toward them and taking a seat. The smell of cigarette smoke follows close behind him, mixed with the sickly sweet scent of brown liquor.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling suddenly embarrassed, though I’m not even sure why. Maybe just for showing up here, in this vulnerable place. “I should probably go.”

“You’re welcome to join us any time,” the woman says. “We’re here every Monday. Eight o’clock.”

I smile and nod, flashing a grateful wave before stepping outside and walking back toward my car. I’m digging my hand around in my purse now, feeling for my keys, when my fingers wrap around something thin and hard, like a notecard. A business card. I pull it out, my fingertips running across the name embossed on thick, black paper.

Waylon Spencer.

Suddenly, I remember that man on the plane. That was only yesterday, the way he had looked at me and offered his help. It felt a little slimy then—opportunistic, right on the heels of that conference—but his words are ringing loudly in my ear now, a tempting pull.

“With a podcast, you wouldn’t have to talk to all those people. Not directly, anyway. You’d just have to talk to me.”

I keep walking toward my car, my mind on all the people in my life who take it upon themselves to dissect my every move: Ben, Detective Dozier. The judging eyes of the audience members whose names now sit on my dining room table, taunting me even more.

It would be nice, I think. Not having to convince all these people of my innocence, my pain. Only having to convince one.

I look at Waylon’s business card, scanning his information. Then I pull my phone out of my pocket, before I can think twice, and navigate to my Inbox, launching a new email and beginning to type.





CHAPTER TWELVE


THEN

The air has a gelatinous quality to it today, sluggish and wet. It reminds me of gravy dripping from a serving spoon, concentrated and thick, pooling into various creases and settling there. Turning everything damp.

Margaret and I are outside by the water, the thin fabric of our nightgowns sticking to our skin with sweat. We’re sitting on the grass, pretzel-style, trying to savor the little gusts of wind that occasionally find their way to us through the trees. It’s usually breezy out here, but right now it’s painfully still, like even the clouds are holding their breath.

“Tea?”

I look up at my sister, my eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness of the sky above us. She’s arranged the garden statues in a semicircle, a plastic teacup placed before each one. We’re a peculiar party, I have to say, Margaret and I, with our humidity-soaked hair, crimped and wild, and our matching white nightgowns. Necks itchy with ribbons and lace. We’re two years apart, but Mom still dresses us in coordinating outfits, even when we’re sleeping. Like we come in a set: life-sized nesting dolls.